


The Engagement

by ladymalfoyfics



Series: The Engagement Universe [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Drama, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Bachelor Blaise Zabini, Blaise Zabini is a Good Friend, Chaser Ginny Weasley, Chef Blaise Zabini, Dinner, Draco Malfoy Being an Asshole, Draco Malfoy Being an Idiot, Draco Malfoy is Bad at Feelings, Drama, Drama & Romance, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to friends to lovers To enemies to friends to lovers, Ensemble Cast, Eventual Happy Ending, Except there are actually many strings, Family Dinners, Friends With Benefits, Good Slytherins, Gryffindor/Slytherin Inter-House Relationships, Gryffindors and Slytherins, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, I'm literally so sorry this is my first fic I don't know how tags work, Idiots in Love, Jealous Hermione Granger, Jealousy, Like really fucking slow, Love Triangles, Marriage Contracts, Ministry of Magic Employee Hermione Granger, Miscommunication, Multi, Mutual Pining, No Strings Attached, Not Epilogue Compliant, Oblivious Harry Potter, Pansy Parkinson is a Good Friend, Pining, Pining Draco Malfoy, Pining Hermione Granger, Post-Hogwarts, Protective Pansy Parkinson, Protective Slytherins, Quidditch Player Ginny Weasley, Ron Weasley is Surprisingly Perceptive, Slow Burn, Slytherins Being Slytherins, except, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29034918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymalfoyfics/pseuds/ladymalfoyfics
Summary: Her eyes cut back to the Floo.Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy. A beaming Astoria, left hand on a smiling Draco’s right arm. Left hand adorned with a ring sparkling so brightly Hermione thought she might go blind if she looked at it too closely.Hermione Granger was a fool.ON INDEFINITE HIATUS
Relationships: Arthur Weasley/Molly Weasley, Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Audrey Weasley/Percy Weasley (mentioned), Daphne Greengrass/Theodore Nott, Draco Malfoy & Narcissa Black Malfoy, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Leon Greengrass/Cassandra Greengrass, Narcissa Black Malfoy & Andromeda Black Tonks, Narcissa Black Malfoy & Andromeda Black Tonks & Molly Weasley, Narcissa Black Malfoy & Molly Weasley, Parvati Patil/Ron Weasley, Tracey Davis/Cassius Warrington (minor), past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley - Relationship
Series: The Engagement Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2130075
Comments: 142
Kudos: 209





	1. The Decision

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This fic was posted and then quickly deleted at the beginning of this month because I didn't have very much written and I wanted to flesh it out more before posting. But we're back! I am posting six chapters to start, and then updates will be every Sunday unless otherwise specified until the fic is completed. There is also a prequel in the works, so stay tuned!
> 
> If you've found this fic and decided to read it despite the train wreck that is the tags, welcome! (And please offer me tagging advice in the comments). This is my first work and I'm honestly terrified about posting it. I've been lurking in the Dramione fandom for a few months now, but only just worked up the courage to start writing something.
> 
> I'm really excited about this work! I personally adore love triangle stories with Astoria/Draco/Hermione, and I also love Slytherin-Gryffindor friendship stories with lots of well-developed characters. I've read a few of those, but haven't been able to find a story that had all of what I really wanted, which led to this fic! I essentially just wrote what I wanted to read. It's starting as a Dramione-centric fic, but you'll find lots of little subplots for all of the many (romantic and platonic) pairings and I want to expand this to become a series with shorter fics about the side pairings after I finish this first one.
> 
> Please please please review if possible and send any feedback my way! Again, I'm very new to this and I want to improve however possible. I am also not at all British and this is not Brit-picked yet, so if you are British and catch anything wrong or bad or odd, please let me know! Okay, I'll stop talking now so you can all start reading. Let me know what you think!
> 
> xoxo ladymalfoyfics
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTE: Every chapter of this fic will begin with a day of the week and a date. For example, Chapter 1 starts with "Friday, August 28." I do this because I like having a clear timeline in my stories. These days/dates are taken from the 2020-2021 calendar years. However, Ginny turns 23 on August 11 and Hermione turns 25 on September 19, towards the beginning of the fic -- so if we went with canon, the year would be 2004 and August 28, 2004 was a Saturday. I, however, do not want to reference 2004-2005 calendars every time I write. I also like thinking of the characters as around my age. The idea that they are technically 40ish right now based on canon freaks me out. So basically, if you care about technical canon dates/years, this might irritate you. Although, if you care about canon all that much, this may not be the fic for you at all.
> 
> In short, you can go with canon and think of it as the year 2004 (just know that the days of the week in 2004 won't align with the dates listed in the fic, which are from 2020 and 2021) or you can go with it being 2020.
> 
> Okay! Very long explanation for a very minor issue! Now onto the drama.
> 
> 3/12/21 UPDATE: ON INDEFINITE HIATUS.

**_Friday, August 28, 3:15PM_ **

“I still can’t believe you missed my 23rd birthday,” Ginny grumbled, perched on Hermione’s bed. “And I can’t believe you were gone three entire weeks. And I seriously don’t understand why you unpack by hand. You know you’re a witch, right?”

Hermione shot Ginny a glare over her shoulder. “As I’ve said a thousand times, it calms me, Ginny. And besides, I’m looking for your gift, so stop complaining. You sound like Ron.”

Ginny gasped with mock affront. “Like Ronald? My speckly brother and your git of an ex? That might be the worst thing you’ve ever said to me, Hermione.”

The brunette rolled her eyes. “Old news, Ginevra. Ah! Here we go.”

She handed the younger witch two chic white bags and watched as Ginny tore them open, pulling a lace-trimmed baby blue bodysuit out of one bag and a stunningly constructed black sports bra and high-waisted leggings out of another, mouth agape.

“They’re both Muggle brands,” Hermione explained, “The bodysuit is from La Perla, I know you’d been looking for something new to surprise Harry. And the set is from Ernest Leoty, the founder’s actually a Squib, and she loved the ballet growing up – Muggle ballet, of course, not Wizarding – but anyway, she really wanted to make something functional but still beautiful for women to work out in, and I just thought it might be useful for you during practices, I know you hate the Harpies’ uniforms and all but honestly if you don’t like it it’s perfectly fine don’t worry about it, you really don’t have to wear them I just thought you might—”

“Hermione, shut up, would you? I bloody love them.” Ginny pulled out the receipt and began gesturing wildly. “What I don’t understand is why you spend this much fucking money on clothes! For me! Are you mental?”

“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed, somewhat relieved. “Fuck, I was supposed to take that out. Well, you know the Ministry gave us a truly ridiculous sum of money at the end of the war, and I’d much rather spend it on my friends than myself. And the galleon-euro transaction rate is really quite remarkable,” she rambled a bit breathlessly. “So you do like it, then? I just feel so miserable that I missed the actual day,” she said after a pause. 

Ginny rolled her eyes benignly. “I love it, Hermione. Thank you, seriously. I’m wearing these,” she waved the Leoty bag, “to our next practice, and the girls are going to be practically drooling. You’ll have created monsters soon enough. And Harry’s going to lose his bloody mind over the teddy.” She peeked back at the teddy appraisingly. “I think it might even persuade him to use the c—”

Hermione plugged her ears, scrunching her eyes and shaking her head wildly, “Oh my god, Gin, not again! You know you’re not allowed to tell me about your sex life with Harry! He’s like my fucking brother, seriously!”

“Didn’t stop you from telling me about your escapades with my actual brother,” Ginny muttered. “But fine! So is this all you did in Paris? Frequent lingerie shops and buy excessively sexy workout clothes? For anyone in particular?” Ginny waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

“Oh shut up, Ginny, you know I haven’t been with anyone since that awful night with Ernie last December.”

“Riiiiiight,” Ginny said. “So there’s no one on your mind. No one you’d like to buy lingerie for? No one… pointy? Ferret-like?”

Hermione’s heart started pounding. “Other than yourself, you mean?” She quipped, trying desperately to cover up her unease. “No. There is no one.”

It was Ginny’s turn to roll her eyes. “I’m not pointy or ferret-like. Are we really still playing this game, Hermione?”

The witch in question was determinedly avoiding eye contact. “I have no idea what you mean. Cup of tea?”

“Yes. And I’ll drop it for now, but don’t think this is the end of that conversation. You can’t distract me that easily, Hermione, I’m not Harry or Ron.”

Hermione sighed. “Fine. Thank you.” She busied herself with the kettle. “Anything interesting happen while I was gone? How were the dinners?”

After the war, Harry and Hermione – both pseudo-orphans at that point – had felt themselves in dire need of something to ground them – something constant, stabilizing. When Hermione and Ginny left to return to Hogwarts for their seventh year while Harry and Ron stayed in London to begin Auror training, they had felt that need even more acutely. They had started with Saturday afternoon butterbeers at the Three Broomsticks: every Saturday, without fail, the boys would Floo up to Hogwarts through McGonagall’s office and meet the girls in Hogsmeade, spending at least 60 minutes at Madam Rosmerta’s pub to catch up before heading back to Diagon Alley. Even Ginny and Hermione’s budding friendship with a decidedly odd mix of Slytherins couldn’t halt the quartet’s regular meetings.

Hermione had befriended Theo Nott and Draco Malfoy through her 8th-Year NEWT-Level Arithmancy course, in which there were only three students – Theo and Draco, coincidentally, the only two who had ever been able to keep up with her academically. Luna Lovegood and Dean Thomas, who had both also returned to Hogwarts, befriended Malfoy as well after the boy pulled them aside and apologized profusely for their experiences at Malfoy Manor, breaking down in front of them in a way he had never broken down publicly before. Soon, Hermione had found herself in a budding friendship with Theo’s definitely-not-girlfriend, Daphne Greengrass. After a series of drunken truth-or-dare sessions in the Eighth-Year Common Room, Hermione, Neville, Ginny, Luna, and Dean had found themselves shockingly close to not only Draco, Theo, and Daphne, but Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson – who had proven themselves to be a package deal with the initial Slytherin trio. Daphne’s sister Astoria, only a sixth-year then, had tagged along on more than one occasion, eager to follow her sister anywhere she went.

Of course, when the other two-thirds of the Golden Trio first found out, Harry was rightfully concerned and Ron downright incensed, but they had eventually come around, in large part due to a particularly raucous game of Truth or Dare one January evening when Harry and Ron had stayed through the weekend. After that chaotic event, the entire Hogwarts crew found themselves with a standing Saturday invitation to the Three Broomsticks, which eventually evolved into a regular Friday dinner party: from four traumatized teenagers searching for stability to a raucous endeavour amassing a dozen people, often more. That transition was helped along (sometimes shoved) by Draco’s Auror position and subsequent partnership with Harry, not to mention a number of Howlers sent by none other than one Ginny Weasley, demanding the Slytherins’ presence.

The members of the dinner club had changed over the years, of course. Dean had married Seamus and moved to America to teach at Ilvermorny, Luna was almost always out of the country for research, and Neville only attended during the summers, given his position as the new Herbology Professor at Hogwarts. Ginny and Ron had first brought a broken, traumatized George (still grieving his twin’s death) six months into their regular meetings, just a week after a very sad but long-overdue breakup with a newly-out Angelina Johnson. Significant others would occasionally make an appearance, but would rarely last long – usually, they were one of Blaise or Pansy’s ever-changing lovers – with the hopeful exception of Parvati Patil, whom Ron had started dating several months earlier and brought for the first time about two months ago. But despite any changes in makeup or menu, the essence of their Friday meetings never shifted. They were a fixture, as sacred as Weasley family brunches every first Sunday or Hogwarts holiday feasts.

Hermione’s nostalgia was interrupted by the red-headed witch herself, who had apparently been talking all the while.

“—and Harry and Malfoy were stuck at their desks the last two weeks and wouldn’t stop moping about it. Of course, I’ve told you all about the chaotic birthday. Astoria came last week, but she was boring as always.”

“Be nice, Ginny! She’s really quite sweet once you get to know her a bit.”

“No, Hermione, I know she’s sweet. She’s really bloody nice. It’s almost irritating. She’s just so… stiff, you know? Wears a bloody cocktail dress every time she comes and seems absolutely boggled when there aren’t four forks and three spoons and seven courses. I don’t know why Daphne keeps bringing her.”

“You’re exaggerating, Gin, she’s only brought Astoria twice. Well, three times with last week, I suppose. She’s her sister, what’s Daph supposed to do?”

Ginny snorted. “You don’t see me bringing Charlie or Bill, do you? Or, Merlin forbid, Percy?”

Hermione giggled into her cup. “Could you imagine him there? Ron would probably put a frog on his seat or something.”

“More like a puking pastille in his pizza,” Ginny snickered.

“Oh, god, or Percy having to interact with Blaise!” Hermione chortled. “I don’t know who would leave that experience more miserable. George would absolutely piss himself laughing!”

Ginny sniggered. “Ron would probably sic a herd of pygmy puffs on him!”

The girls were laughing in earnest now, guffawing into their tea. Hermione piped up again, more soberly this time.

“Did you ever think we would get here, Gin? All of us, alive and whole and happy, dinners every Friday and still best mates?”

“Godric, no,” Ginny said seriously. “I was sure the boys would be dead before they were of age, and we’d be soon to follow. Did I ever pause to think that the four of us would intentionally or voluntarily have dinner every Friday with a bunch of Slytherins? Absolutely the fuck not.”

“It does sound rather ridiculous when you say it like that, doesn’t it?”

“Are you joking? If you had told me six years ago that I’d be bantering with the Ferret and that Harry wouldn’t instantly start stalking Malfoy to see what he was up to, I’d have hexed you.”

Hermione tittered, sipping her tea. “I’m glad we’re here, though. Oddly, I can’t imagine our lives without them.”

Ginny raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “Oh, I know you can’t. Just… did you mean them or did you mean him?”

“You promised we’d drop it!” Hermione exclaimed exasperatedly.

“You’re in love with him, Hermione, and you’ll probably see him tonight unless he’s banned from Blaise’s flat again. Which he won’t be, unless he’s managed to embarrass him in front of a new witch within the last…” She checked her watch. “Thirteen hours.”

“I still can’t believe you were out with them until 3 last night. You had practice this morning, Ginny!”

“Yes, and I knew coach was giving us half the day off. You’re only twenty-two once!”

“You’re twenty-three, Ginny.”

“Yes. Right. Just got used to saying it. Well, you’re only twenty-three once too. Anyway, you’re deflecting. I know you’re in love with him, Hermione, so just admit it to yourself and to him so the two of you can shag and you can tell me whether or not he really is the Slytherin Sex God or not. Yes?”

Hermione flushed. “I fucking hate you sometimes, Ginny.”

“It’s what I do, babe.” She jumped off the counter and put her cup in the sink, turning around to smack Hermione on the arse just a smidge too hard before bounding away.

“Ginny!”

“It’s four, and Zabini has demanded our presence at six sharp! And I know you’re going to want to wash your hair and then insist on taming it the Muggle way and then give up and start all over and then spend 30 minutes choosing your outfit because he’s coming, so you’d best get a move on if you’d like to be there in time to avoid Zabini’s wrath.” She disappeared into her bedroom.

“Fuck,” Hermione groaned, checking her watch.

“Yes. That’s what I thought. Now get in the shower before I shove you in fully clothed!” Ginny’s voice floated out from behind her door.

Ginny popped back out from her room. “Oh, by the way. Pansy told me yesterday that, and I quote, ‘Weasley, if Granger doesn’t owl me the moment she gets back, it’s your hair I’ll be ripping out,’ and Theo said something about needing to talk to you about a certain someone.”

Hermione flushed. Again. Theo was the only one who knew about her and Draco, and he had been trying to corner her about it for a month before she left for France. “I—did he—did Theo say anything else?”

“No, that was it.”

She relaxed. “Thank Merlin.”

Ginny’s head popped back out. “Why? Is there anything you thought he might have said?”

“I- God, Ginny, you’re paranoid!” She lied easily. “No, there is not. I just didn’t know if he was spouting the same nonsense you’ve been for the past eight months!”

“Riiiiiiight,” Ginny squinted, suspiciously. “Well, as you know –”

“—we’re not done talking about this. Yes, Ginevra, I know. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go wash my hair,” she said, rushing away before Ginny could respond.

 _Ginny isn’t wrong_ , she thought as she stepped into the steaming shower. _I do have to tell him at some point. We’ve been doing this for eight months and it’s not like my feelings have gone away. To think it all started with a drunken shag_ , Hermione chuckled to herself.

If she was being honest, it had all started well before that drunken shag – during their eighth year, really. Hermione and Ron had broken up less than two months after the Battle of Hogwarts, the decision expedited by Hermione’s firm decision to return to Hogwarts and Ron’s equally firm decision to begin Auror training immediately. Hermione didn’t mind Ron’s decision, nor did she begrudge him it, but Ron simply couldn’t understand why Hermione, after experiencing all the trauma they had seen at that school, would ever want to return. Fred’s lifeless body, lying in the Great Hall, was imprinted on Ron’s brain forever, and the idea of returning to that school, waltzing through that very place and going about his days as if everything was normal, as if his brother hadn’t died in those very hallways – he couldn’t bear it. He had learned all that he needed to learn, Ron decided, through all the horrors they had experienced. Hermione, on the other hand, couldn’t fathom going to work so soon after so many had lost their lives, without revisiting the site of so much horror, processing her trauma, and finishing her education. She would be doing a disservice to herself and to the world if she didn’t take the time to finish learning, listening to the needs of her heart and her mind and coming out more whole on the other side. That fundamental incompatibility: the inability, in their trauma-ridden states, to understand the other’s choices, even if they chose to accept them – that is what drove Hermione and Ron to a quick and anticlimactic breakup.

In the end, that breakup was the best thing that had ever happened to them. After a brutally awkward summer, they realized once apart that they were and had always been much better as friends. And Hermione had spent the next six years pining over none other than Draco Malfoy.

As two of the only three members of eighth-year Advanced Arithmancy, Hermione and Draco found themselves in the library more evenings than not. Theo, their third classmate, skived off more often than not, and could usually be found in a number of totally-not-compromising positions with Daphne Greengrass, his just-friend-and-definitely-not-girlfriend-why-would-you-ever-suggest-such-a-thing-you-traitors. Hermione and Draco, therefore, found themselves alone, definitely not staring surreptitiously at how Draco’s fingers traced the lines of his textbook or how Hermione’s lips closed perfectly around a sugar quill and most certainly not sitting next to each other instead of across from each other in the library each night, allowing their knees to brush every now and then, sharing soft smiles and practically jumping apart as if they had been stunned any time Theo or Ginny waltzed in to the library.

 _Memories for a different day_ , Hermione thought, smiling softly to herself. Today is about what could be, not what could – or even should – have been.

The unlikely duo had been tiptoeing around the topic of definitions for months, ever since Hermione and Draco had fallen into his bed after a particularly drunken dinner one Friday in January. One shag – quickly and dishonestly dismissed as a mistake, never to happen again – had turned into two, then three, and the next thing both of them knew, they had been shagging weekly for almost a full seven months. Ginny and Pansy had become suspicious less than two weeks into Hermione and Draco’s arrangement, but left without any evidence to back up their theories. Theo and Daphne, too, had poked and prodded at the pair for confirmation but were met with such little information, they were almost ready to admit that they were wrong. That is, until one early summer night in June when the two of them had uncharacteristically lost track of time before a Friday dinner that was to be hosted at Draco’s flat that evening. Theo and Daphne were the first to arrive, walking in on Draco pounding into Hermione on the couch – a truly scarring event for all parties, but one that became both a blessing and a curse, giving the exposed pair time to cover up before the arrival of the rest of the guests but ensuring that the Slytherin couple would inevitably engage in a sustained, months-long interrogation until they received the information they desired.

The issue, of course, was not the question of their friends’ acceptance, nor their families – Hermione had developed a close friendship with Narcissa a couple of years after the war, watching her redemption closely through their shared friendship with Andromeda. It wasn’t even an issue of the couple’s tumultuous shared past: Hermione had long since forgiven Draco, apologies made and accepted years ago.

No, the issue was the couple themselves. Having been best friends for over 5 years, neither party – in a both self-sacrificing and selfish decision – wanted to be the one to ruin it over “a little fling,” one where each half of the couple wasn’t even certain that the other felt the same way. Draco had ranted to Hermione on more than one occasion about the marriage contracts other pure-blood and wealthy half-blood families were sending his mother’s way; on occasion, Witch Weekly would publish a spread of photographs of Draco seated across from some beautiful pureblood princess or another at the most expensive restaurants in both Wizarding and Muggle London.

And for the past several weeks, that tension had mounted, lingering over their… situation… like a dementor attack. Now, with three weeks of distance, Hermione could see how stupid she had been over the past month and a half: cutting Draco off any time she suspected he was getting close to asking the dreaded relationship-defining question, once even apparating out of his apartment with muttered excuses and an apology owl rather than confront the situation. She was overly-placating and caustic all at once, egging him on to continue with his dates while criticizing them and the entire arrangement any chance she got. But Hermione’s fatal mistake had happened the morning she was to leave for France.

_“God, I hate my hair in the mornings. I feel like I’m thirteen all over again, all bushy hair and buck-teeth,” Hermione ranted, fidgeting with her curls in the mirror. “I don’t know how you can look at me like this – no, Draco, I’m serious, stop laughing!”_

_“No, Granger, I’m not laughing, I’m merely chuckling at the idea that you’re anything less than breath-taking.” The blonde responded._

_“Breath-taking because I’ll end up suffocating you with my hair in your sleep,” Hermione grumbled. “And you! With your perfectly coiffed hair all the bloody time! It’s not fair!”_

_Coming up behind her, he wrapped his arms around her waist, sweeping her hair aside and pressing kisses to the side of her neck. “I’ll rumple my hair for you, love, if it makes you feel better.”_

_She froze at that particular term of endearment, meeting his stare in the mirror. A small smile crept across his face. “Hermione,” he had said, never breaking eye contact with her reflection. “I—”_

_If Hermione hadn’t known any better, she might have thought he was on the verge of telling her he loved her. And she reacted the way any sensible woman would react to her shag-buddy-slash-best-friend telling her he loved her. She fled._

_“Oh look!” Hermione interjected, panic in her voice. “Look at the time. 8:24! My Portkey’s set to leave soon—”_

_“—Hermione, it’s not set to leave for another 36 minutes. Would you—”_

_“Yes, Draco, but I’ve still got to feed Crookshanks and make breakfast and eat breakfast and all sorts of last-minute things,” she hurried, extricating herself from his arms. He grabbed her wrist._

_“Hermione, you don’t eat breakfast. Ever. Not for the five years we’ve been friends. What are you on about?”_

_To no avail, she tried to tug her hand out of his firm grasp. “Well, it’s just a very important trip, and you really should eat before portkey travel, and Ginny could come back any moment and god knows how awkward that would be—”_

_Draco’s face hardened, the man dropping her hand like it burned. “Ah. I see. Right, wouldn’t want any of our friends to find out. Well, I’ll just be going, then. Wouldn’t want to be in your way. Busy day and all. I’ll see you at the end of the month.”_

_Hermione frowned. “Draco, wait, I didn’t mean it like—”_

_The snap of apparition sounded before she could finish her sentence._

It had taken a week for Hermione to realize what a massive fucking mistake she had made, and Hermione had spent the next three weeks in Paris – the most romantic fucking city in the world – pining over a man whose advances she had inadvertently and stupidly halted.

Hermione stepped out of the shower, shaking her head. “You’re a coward, Hermione Granger,” she muttered at herself in the mirror. “You broke into Gringotts and survived fucking Bellatrix Lestrange, but you can’t let a man tell you he loves you?”

She pulled on a long-sleeved wrap dress in emerald green – Draco’s favourite.

_“I love it when you wear this for me,” he had murmured. “It’s like I’m unwrapping the most brilliant fucking present of all time.”_

No, Hermione decided, shaking off the memory. Letting him tell her his feelings wasn’t enough. She had fucked up, and now she had to make this right.

 _You love him, Hermione_ , her reflection seemed to say. _Are you going to be a bloody Gryffindor and tell him, or not?_


	2. The Announcement

**_Friday, August 28, approximately 6:00PM_ **

“Darling, you know the Floo in the master is always open for you, right?” Blaise flirted, hands lingering on her waist as he kissed her cheeks in greeting.

“In your dreams, Zabini,” Hermione smirked, handing him a bottle of wine – her sole contribution to the night’s menu.

“Oh, darling, you know you maintain the starring role in my dreams. Even after wounding me with a three-week absence. I was almost out of new fantasy material.”

“Gross, Blaise, too far,” she wrinkled her nose. “Where’s Theo?” She asked.

“Probably at home, engaged in some god-forsaken activities with Daphne,” he rolled his eyes. “But I told him if he wasn’t here by 6:05, I’d murder him.”

Hermione laughed, entering through the foyer and somehow finding herself yet again in awe of Blaise’s truly massive flat. “Is everyone else here?”

“Only half,” Blaise said. “We’re missing Theo, Daph, Draco, and Pansy’s in the loo. Neville went back to Hogwarts early on McGonagall’s request, but I’m sure you already knew that. Honestly, I’m being fucking suffocated by Gryffindors at the moment.”

Hermione shot the man one last pseudo-flirtatious smile before walking into a familiar scene: Parvati Patil, their newfound bartending genius, was busy making drinks for Ron and Harry; Ginny and Blaise were bantering in a corner, brandishing their wands, egged on by a very amused George Weasley.

“Hermione!” Parvati exclaimed. “We didn’t know you’d be back in time for tonight. You’ve been missed.”

“How was your trip, ‘Mione?” Ron asked, meandering over and wrapping an arm around her in greeting.

“It was really great! Unbelievably productive. It’s the first real project for the department, so it was understandably a tiny bit bumpy. But the French Minister was really excited, and Madame Maxime was very open to it. They’re going to start putting together their own curriculum specific to France with student input over the next few months, and the plan is to meet again next August to solidify the plans and get everything in motion. I think it’ll be great, especially if it goes well at Hogwarts this year. Durmstrang and Ilvermorny are next, of course, and we’ll expand from there, hopefully.”

“That’s fucking amazing, Hermione. You should’ve seen Dennis this past week. He was moping about the office like a lost puppy without you and Justin.”

After the war, Hermione had gone to work for the Ministry’s Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, her first priority being recognition and freedom for house-elves. Dobby’s death had weighed heavily on her conscience, and after some reading and a few aggravated chats with Kingsley Shacklebolt – the new Minister of Magic – she had realized just how little recognition house-elves had received after the war. Tens, possibly hundreds of elves and other magical creatures had died and hundreds, possibly thousands more had fought, but none of them had received the benefits or titles of war heroes like Hermione or her friends. She had worked around the clock for six months to grant them post-war benefits, subsequent freedom, and properly compensated employment – a record time frame for any type of magical legislation, which would normally get stalled by the old, crochety members of the Wizengamot until its proponents simply gave up.

Hermione had then proceeded to hurtle through the ranks of the Department, changing its name to the Department of Wizarding-Magical Being Relations after a furious and passionate campaign – “No, seriously, Ron, I fucking dare you to try and explain to me why wizards think they have any right to regulate or control elves, or centaurs, or anyone else!” – and embarking on a fervent mission to completely reinvigorate Wizarding attitudes towards and treatment of other magical beings, passing a record 187 bills and working with Hagrid and Headmistress McGonagall to create a robust curriculum, providing a framework and benchmarks that would last at least several decades.

In the end, Hermione had been offered the position of Department Head last July, at only 23. She had declined, leaving the department in the very capable hands of former Deputy Head (now Department Head) Susan Bones and Chief Magizoologist Rolf Scamander.

Hermione had taken the opportunity to create a brand-new venture: the Department of Wizard-Muggle Relations, with Hermione’s first goal being to revitalize and reform the Muggle education curriculum at Hogwarts, creating both a proper pre-Hogwarts Muggle curriculum for pure-blood and half-blood children as well as a ten-week curriculum for Muggleborn children, the summer before their first year. Hiring just two employees, Justin Finch-Fletchley and Dennis Creevey (both Muggleborn), they had created a proposal for their initial goals and presented it to the Wizengamot and Headmistress McGonagall. The first part of the curriculum – reconfiguring the Muggle Studies elective at Hogwarts to become a seven-part sequence, with classes reviewing everything from Muggle history to art to technology and Wizarding-Muggle relations.

Now, with the first semester of this new curriculum beginning implementation in the fall at Hogwarts, the Department of International Magical Cooperation had requested that Hermione travel to France for three weeks to work with the French Ministry in creating plans for a similar department and to meet with Beauxbatons faculty and administration to create a framework for the same type of curriculum in France beginning next year.

“Bloody brilliant, Hermione, as always,” Ron said. “From SPEW to being the youngest department head in Ministry history. Absolutely brilliant.”

“For the last time, it’s S.P.E.W., Ron!”

Hermione had chosen to omit the fact that she had spent half of her time fantasizing and reminiscing about a certain pointy blonde man not yet in their presence. Draco. A smile crossed her face just thinking about the blonde wizard. After tonight, hopefully her blonde wizard.

Losing herself in memories, she hardly noticed as Harry floated away to prevent Ginny from mortally hexing Blaise for flirting with her again.

She couldn’t believe it had taken her this long to realize how deeply she cared about him. No, not cared about him – loved him. She gave herself a quick nod, taking a sip of her wine. If she was going to tell him that tonight – which I will, she smiled – she had better get used to thinking it, let alone saying it.

“Oi, Ron, I’ll bet you three galleons I know exactly what the Brightest Witch of Our Age is smiling about today.”

“No need for the bet, George, it’s obvious to anyone with a pair of eyes. And don’t you mean WHO the brightest witch of our age is smiling about today?” Ron’s eyebrows waggled.

Hermione had been so distracted that, when a second red-headed man appeared on her left, she felt that he had seemingly materialized out of nowhere.

“Shut it, you two,” the Brightest Witch of Her Age retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. “For now, at least, or I’ll sic the birds on you again.”

Seemingly unperturbed, George slung his right arm across her shoulders. “Not that I’m not absolutely bloody terrified of those birds, dearest Hermione, but I simply must know if we’re right and that smile really is about a certain pale git who may or may not hurtle through that very fireplace any second.”

“Lower your voice, George!” Hermione hissed. “This is NOT the time OR the place.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Seriously, ‘Mione, it’s not like half of this little group of ours doesn’t already know. I’m beginning to think the git himself is the only one who still doesn’t suspect a thing. I mean, if I’ve guessed it, don’t you think everyone else has, too?”

“You didn’t guess it, Ronald, you were lucky enough to overhear Ginny accosting me about some alleged feelings I may or may not have one night.”

“Semantics,” George declared.

“Do you ever plan on telling him?” Ron asked. “Not that I’m encouraging you, you know, it’s the ferret, for Merlin’s sake. You might do better with an actual ferret. But—”

“Oh look!” Hermione interjected breathlessly. “It’s Pansy. I haven’t had a chance to say hello yet. Goodbye, boys.”

As she walked away, she could hear George whispering. “In denial, that one.”

“And she says I have the emotional capacity of a teaspoon,” Ron complained.

Hermione snickered to herself, striding towards Pansy, whose back was still turned. She withdrew her wand, shooting a particularly vicious pinching hex straight at Pansy’s bum. The witch spun around, her pin-straight, jet-black bob twirling with her, likely expecting to find Blaise. Instead, coming face-to-face with Hermione, she paled.

"I've got to say, Pans, I thought you'd be just a smidge happier to see me."

Pansy had just opened her mouth to respond when the Floo crackled to life once again, her concerned expression replaced by one of utter panic. Pansy seemed to identify the most recent arrivals before Hermione, eyes widening almost comically. Hermione, hardly having spared a glance upon hearing the noise, now spun around to register a very scattered-looking Theodore Nott, followed by a scrambling Daphne Greengrass. Frantically scanning the room, ignoring the nods and raised glasses of his friends, Theo muttered something in his fiancée’s ear as she nodded vigorously. Daphne was looking anywhere but her curly-haired friend, but Theo’s eyes locked on Hermione and Pansy. He began making quick, long strides towards them, rushed in a way Theo Nott rarely was.

Hermione’s brow furrowed, her gaze stuck on her former Arithmancy partner. “Pansy—” she began, concern beginning to lace her tone.

“Listen, Granger, we need to talk,” Pansy interrupted in a low, urgent voice. “Now.”

Pansy grabbed Hermione’s elbow, locking eyes with Theo and nodding towards Blaise’s office.

That’s it. Something was decidedly wrong.

Hermione whipped her eyes back to Pansy, yanking her elbow out of the Slytherin witch’s grasp. “What the fuck is going on?”

Pansy had just started to respond – “Look, we just—” when they heard the rush of the Floo once more.

Theo froze, blood rushing from his face.

“Oh, fuck,” Pansy muttered.

Hermione’s eyes cut back to the Floo.

Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy.

A beaming Astoria, left hand on a smiling Draco’s right arm.

Left hand adorned with a ring sparkling so brightly Hermione thought she might go blind if she looked at it too closely.

Hermione Granger was a fool.

She sensed more than heard Pansy urgently whispering her name. She could only see Astoria and Draco both turning to Daphne, who was still standing by the fireplace, offering them both a weak smile, still determinedly looking anywhere but Hermione.

No, Hermione thought. No fucking way.

Ripping her eyes from the scene before her, she looked back at Theo, still three strides away from them, then Pansy, whose jaw had dropped low enough she might catch flies.

“Look, Granger, I swear, I did not know this was happening. I didn’t even know this was on the table. I would’ve come to fucking Paris if I knew. Fuck.”

“I was going to tell him I loved him tonight,” Hermione whispered, almost to herself. “He almost said it before I left.”

“Hermione—”

“Pansy,” Hermione began hoarsely, then paused, chugging the remainder of her wine. “I need you to shut up and get me a drink.”

Concern flashed across the other woman’s face, but she nodded anyway, engaging in a wordless exchange with Theo before making her way towards the kitchen. The tall wizard quickly made his way over to Hermione, squeezing Pansy’s hand as she left.

“I’m so sorry, Hermione. We only just found out. Just before this. I left a message with Ginny, bu—”

“I ignored it,” Hermione said hollowly. “Thought it was the same question as usual.”

Theo’s head dropped as he raised a hand to his face, massaging the bridge of his nose. “I wish it had been,” he began softly. “The same question as usual.”

“And–” Hermione swallowed thickly, trying to school her features. “And. He didn’t owe me anything. We had never – it wasn’t something we discussed. It wasn’t anything.”

“Hermione,” Theo began aggravatedly. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Are you trying to convince yourself, or me? Because you can say anything you want, but you and I both know—”

“Not right now, Nott. Seriously, it’s not the time.” Pansy snapped, having made her way back with three clear drinks.

“You fucking brought me water?” Hermione asked incredulously.

Pansy rolled her eyes. “I’ll cut you some slack for that one based on what we’ve just seen, but I’m offended that you’d think that, Granger. Vodka. Double shot. I think we’ll need it.”

Hermione didn’t hesitate a moment before grabbing the glass and downing it in one go.

“It’s going to be a long fucking night.”


	3. The Dinner Party From Hell, Part One

_**Friday, August 28, 6:25PM** _

Blaise was the first to notice, a flash of consternation crossing his face, unnoticed by the rest, before he returned to his ever-suave persona.

“Malfoy, you absolute bastard!” he shouted, sounding almost angry. Every person in the room snapped their attention over to Blaise, then his intended target as the Italian man took long strides towards the Floo. Hermione took the opportunity to refill and chug her long-empty wine glass, Pansy throwing her concerned looks all the while.

“Hey, mate,” Draco beamed, his rare smile not unnoticed by the rest of the party.

“Come here, git, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Blaise complained, grabbing Malfoy by the shoulders and delivering what appeared to be a bone-crushing hug, thumping him on the back loudly. “And you! Tori, I just saw you and Daph yesterday. I know we’re snakes, but I never thought you’d hide something like this from me.” Blaise took her hands and kissed her on either cheek, Malfoy looking on warmly as he wrapped his arm around her waist once more.

The rest of the party looked at each other confusedly. Malfoy did not smile warmly, and Malfoy most certainly did not hug. A mischievous look came over Astoria’s face as she extricated her hands from Blaise, covering her mouth to giggle softly, looking up at Draco as she leaned into him.

Ginny gasped. “No fucking way,” she said loudly, surreptitiously glancing around to find Hermione, who refused to make eye contact. The look was seemingly missed by the rest of their friends.

Harry – who had somehow turned into the clueless one now – seemed to get tired of the suspense first. “Will someone please fucking tell me what’s going on before I hex all the Slytherins back to the bloody Hogwarts dungeons?”

Honestly, Hermione would have wanted to smack him about the head and tell him to read the room if she hadn’t been so absolutely fucking petrified by the situation she found herself in.

Draco and Blaise rolling their eyes at Harry’s very Gryffindor-like threat.

Draco smirked. “You and I both know you couldn’t hex us if you tried, Potter, you’d be better off recruiting your wife for that.”

Ginny scoffed, trying to suppress her anger for Hermione's sake. “My Bat-Bogey Hex is still deadly as ever, ferret. Don't forget it.”

The ferret in question simply raised an eyebrow. “Right, well. I suppose we should do a bit of an announcement,” he started, clearing his throat. “Is everyone here?”

He glanced around the room, eyes landing on Hermione – still tucked away in a corner – for the first time. Like Theo, just five minutes prior, the blood drained from his face. They stared at each other for what felt like hours, Hermione’s eyes starting to well with tears, Draco’s slowly going flat as he occluded perfectly in a way Hermione had never been able to accomplish.

The moment was broken as Astoria squeezed his hand, smiling gently at him, and Hermione and Draco both shook the moment away.

It really did say something about the girl that she wasn’t able to literally feel the tension in the room, mostly directed towards her dashing escort.

“Right. Well.” He extricated his arm from Astoria, and, with a flourish, conjured twelve champagne flutes and sent them to hover in front of each guest, two bottles of Dom Perignon floating through the room to pour each person a glass. Grabbing his own glass – a bit shakily, Pansy and Blaise noted – he began again. “Astoria and I are engaged, and you’re all the first to know. Well, second to Theo and Daph, I suppose. There’ll be an engagement party next Saturday evening, and you’re all invited. You should be getting them sometime this weekend, I think.” The tension in his shoulders seemed to melt away, then, and he smiled down at the witch beside him – his witch, Hermione thought bitterly. “We’re absolutely thrilled, and I hope you’ll all be thrilled for us too. I thought – that is, we thought – seeing how important these dinners – well, really this whole group – you’re all very important –” he stumbled, cutting himself off.

“I think what Draco means to say—” she looked up at him for confirmation, “is that these dinners are possibly the most cherished thing in Draco’s life and we both thought it should be the first place we formally announced it.”

Hermione could have fucking screamed upon hearing that—that little _pronouncement_.

“Most cherished aside from you, darling,” Draco smirked at her, his swagger seemingly recovered. “But really, you’re all my best mates and there are no better people to have at my side.”

“Now drink, Narcissa’s sent over an entire crate tonight!” Astoria exclaimed.

Hermione scoffed to herself as congratulations filled the air, despite most of the attendees seemingly confused as to whether they should properly greet the happy couple or check on a dangerously calm-looking Hermione.

“I’m going to fucking deal with this,” Pansy muttered before storming off towards the couple.

In the midst of the chaos, Ginny crept over to Hermione and the remaining Slytherin.

“Look,” the ginger began, “We’ll talk about this later, but unless you want to suddenly have the attention of every single person here, you’re going to drink that absurdly expensive Champagne, Occlude, and go make your congratulations, hug your best friend, and gush over his fiancée,” Ginny hissed, spitting out every other word as if they burned.

Throwing Ginny a poisonous look, Hermione didn’t hesitate for a moment, downing the flute like a shot and spinning around to refill it with firewhiskey from the bar cart.

“Not exactly what I think she meant, Granger.” Theo murmured.

“If I’m expected to suffer through this—this farce, then I’d better bloody well be drunk off my arse for it, Theo.”

Theo fixed his gaze at a point on the wall in front of them. “I don’t think it’s a farce, Hermione,” He said softly. “He’s– he seems—”

“Don’t, Theo. Not if you want me to make it through the night without making a fool out of myself.”

He nodded. “Want me to come with you?”

Hermione shook her head. “No. I have to do this alone.”

“In that case, you might need another glass,” Ginny said, swapping out Hermione’s empty flute with her untouched one.

She took a deep breath and made her way up, watching Draco engaged in what appeared to be a heated conversation with Pansy, who looked downright murderous. Hermione watched as he ran a hand through his hair and scoffed at the black-haired witch, looking beyond Pansy to make eye contact with Hermione herself. He froze, his hand suspended in mid-air as if he was petrified. Pansy instantly spun around, face softening as she registered Hermione once more.

Hermione was close enough now that she could hear Pansy mutter “We are not done here, Draco Lucius Malfoy,” before stalking away. “He’s a git, Granger. An absolute bastard,” she shook her head.

Hermione grabbed Pansy’s hand and squeezed it before walking up to the man himself.

“It seems congratulations are in order,” she quipped dryly. "How... unexpected, don't you think?"

“Hermione—” he started lowly.

“Do not start with me,” she spat. “You’ve lost that right.”

His eyes hardened. “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight. I apologize, Granger. We wouldn’t have come.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline, finally losing any semblance of carefully cultivated nonchalance. “You wouldn’t have come? Tell me, Draco, is that because you didn’t want me to know or because you didn’t want to explain to your very lovely fiancée why your best friend seems betrayed beyond belief upon hearing of your very happy pureblood engagement?” Hermione hissed.

“Not here, Granger. Not now,” Draco said lowly.

“Why’s that, Malfoy? Don’t want the rest of this little gang of ours to find out about your dirty little Mudblood secret?”

Draco flinched as if she had slapped him. “Don’t you fucking dare go there, Hermione. You're the one who-”

Released by Daphne, the fiancée in question popped up, seemingly out of nowhere. “Hermione! I had no idea you were back, we thought you were due back tomorrow! I am so glad to see you, because really, I know it’s not usually done like this, but I’ve just been dying to ask if you’d be a bridesmaid—”

“Tori—” Draco began stiffly, only to be cut off by his bubbly fiancée once again. “No, Draco, let me ask! I just know how close you two are and I know we haven’t had much of a chance to get to know each other quite well yet, but I’d just hate for you not to be in the wedding party and my parents would just throw a fit if a woman stood for Draco, so you’d be stuck with me, I’m afraid. Of course, I know you’re just so busy, so if you can’t I’d absolutely understand, but we’d both just love for you to take part, Hermione, really.”

“I’m sure Hermione is quite busy, Tori, like you said.” Draco’s eyes darted back to Hermione. “Right, Granger?”

Later, Hermione would realize how horrible of a decision she was about to make and would most certainly attribute it to the adrenaline, or alcohol, or perhaps the excessive occlumency, but in the moment, her blood boiled at the idea the Draco sodding Malfoy would dare to speak on her behalf after all that had happened that evening.

“Not at all, Malfoy. Astoria, I’d love to, and I’m honoured that you’d ask me – and I haven’t even congratulated you yet! I’m just thrilled for you.”

Astoria beamed and threw her arms around the older witch. Hermione pressed her eyes together, determined to hold it together just long enough to make it away from the couple and through the rest of this dinner from hell. Pulling away, she squeezed Astoria’s hands, delivering a saccharine smile to the man she thought she loved before turning away, downing Ginny’s champagne as she retreated.

_____________________________________

“Was that little champagne swap you pulled a good idea, Ginny? You know she’s going to keep going with the drinks tonight.”

“Definitely. I poured a bit of sober-up in it before I came over. Just enough to keep her from becoming Hysterical Hermione. We’ll have to do a vial every hour, the rate we’re going.”

“You should’ve been a fucking Slytherin, Weaselette.”

“If I were a Slytherin, I’d have poisoned Draco Malfoy by now, Theodore.”

“Touché.”

_____________________________________

Hermione reappeared at their side.

“Well?” Ginny raised an eyebrow.

“I’m a bridesmaid now.”

Theo spat out his drink.


	4. The Dinner Party From Hell, Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: The seating arrangement for this chapter is as follows. Blaise is at the head of the table and Pansy is at the foot. Clockwise from there, we have Theo, Harry, Ginny, Astoria, Draco, Pansy, Daphne, George, Ron, Parvati, and Hermione. There are five on each side, so it's Theo, Harry, Ginny, Astoria, and Draco on one side (Blaise's left) and Hermione, Parvati, Ron, George, and Daphne on the other (Blaise's right) with Pansy directly across from Blaise at the other end.

_**Friday, August 28, 6:45PM** _

“Granger, I’m going to be beyond offended if that’s all you eat. I spent at least four hours at work yesterday planning this meal just because you insisted on something less formal and more… ‘family-style’,” Blaise declared from the head of the table, wrinkling his nose in obvious distaste at their style of meal.

“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed to the man on her left, “No, sorry. Just a bit distracted. I have to, uh, send a few papers over to the French Ministry tomorrow, and I think I ate a bad batch of, erm, something, in Paris.”

Blaise inclined his head, narrowing his eyes. “A bad batch of something. In Paris,” he repeatedly slowly.

Hermione flushed “Well, y—”

“In Paris?” Astoria interjected from across the table, saving Hermione from one awkward explanation while initiating another. “I didn’t know you did business in Paris, Hermione.”

“Oh, I—well, I don’t usually. It’s just, with the new Department’s education reform efforts, we’re trying to loop in the rest of Europe and North America, so I was visiting Beauxbatons and the French Ministry this month,” Hermione explained haltingly.

“Oh, how lovely! You’ll have to tell me all about it sometime. And you’re so lucky to be able to work there, I absolutely adore France. Daphne and I spent some of our summers there growing up,” Astoria explained. “And Draco and I are planning on having the wedding at the Malfoy Chateau in Normandy, it’s just so beautiful!”

Hermione froze, her fork halfway to her lips. She set it down, clearing her throat. “The Malfoy Chateau,” she repeated.

“Yes! It’s just gorgeous. The light streams into every corner and they have this massive apple orchard and an absolutely beautiful ballroom – we’re hoping to host the reception there and the ceremony outside. I know Theo and Daph and Blaise have all been at least once. Right, Daph?”

“What?” Daphne responded, startled. “Oh. Yes. Before fourth year. And three years ago.” The blonde looked like she wanted to dissolve into her chair.

“You must have gone with them, Hermione, yes? Or some other time, I’m sure.”

Memories flooded Hermione’s mind, capturing all her senses.

_Draco grabbed her hand under the tree, pulling her closer until her head rested on his lap._

_“This,” he had said, “Is the most perfect spot in the world to read.”_

_Hermione smiled gently at him, placing her hand on his cheek. “It’s really unbearably beautiful. And I can see where you developed your slightly creepy obsession with apples,” she giggled._

_“Creepy obsession?” Draco’s eyebrows shot up, amused. “How dare you. I simply have superior tastebuds, Granger. Don’t insult me because you’re too plebian to understand.”_

_“Plebian!” Hermione laughed, sitting up. “You’re fucking going down for that,” she declared, and began tickling him mercilessly, knocking Draco onto his back._

_With a swift move, Draco trapped her legs between his own and flipped them, Draco positioning himself on top of Hermione and bringing his face just a breath from her own. Her breath hitched as he drew closer._

_“I think,” he had whispered, “I’d really fucking love to go down for you.”_

“Hermione,” Parvati whispered out of the corner of her mouth, prodding Hermione’s arm surreptitiously. “Hermione.”

The brunette started, pulling herself back into the present.

“No,” she said, flushing viciously. “No, I’ve never been.”

Parvati and Ron exchanged an incredulous look.

Blaise, whose eyes had been darting back and forth between Hermione and Draco like a particularly riveting tennis match, took the moment to strategically interrupt, saving Hermione from whatever invitation Astoria was obliviously about to extend.

“Tori, darling, you’ve got to convince your mother to let us cater. I know Narcissa won’t take issue, but I wouldn’t put it past Cassandra to hold my mum’s choice in men against me,” he interjected.

Astoria rolled her eyes. “Blaise, stop fishing. You don’t need me to tell you your restaurant is the most famous in all of Wizarding Britain. Do you seriously think my mother would prioritize the blood status of your mother’s fifth husband over that type of publicity?”

As the flirt and the fiancée started to banter over the late Mrs. Zabini (officially Lady Zabini, thanks to her sixth husband, a Muggle and the second son of the late Marquess of Ailesbury) Hermione found herself downing her sixth drink, lost in thought.

“You know,” Hermione interjected abruptly, “Draco, you haven’t told us how you and Astoria met. I’m surprised we haven’t seen her recently, considering—” she gestured aimlessly “all this?”

Draco’s head snapped up. “ _We_ have all seen Astoria recently, Granger, I brought her last week,” he drawled. “Not my fault you weren’t here. But really, Granger, you don’t remember me telling you?” He leaned forward in his chair, setting his elbows on the table and interlacing his fingers. “Tori’s parents sent over a proposal contract in the middle of June; we met a couple weeks later. I would have responded sooner, of course, but you know I was so busy with work.”

Everyone at the table had seemingly frozen, the tension in the room not escaping the notice of anyone but Astoria herself. She beamed at the man beside her.

“We know it’s a bit quick, but by pureblood standards, we’ve been positively snail-like going about this. And we just hit it off so well when we went out! It was the most spectacular date. Draco took me to this darling little Muggle restaurant and we literally spent hours there.”

“A Muggle restaurant? How interesting. I didn’t know Malfoy knew any darling little Muggle restaurants,” Hermione repeated sharply, gaze not lifting from Draco.

“Yes, Barrafina! Have you been? It’s a lovely place, Spanish, and the food was just delectable."

Astoria prattled on, not noticing – or perhaps ignoring – Hermione’s eyes glaze over with distant memories.

_Hermione was furiously dodging Draco’s fork, which was edging closer and closer to her mouth each second, hissing expletives at the man all the while. Draco knew his cause was lost, but was doubled over in laughter, finding great amusement in watching Hermione try and press herself further and further into the back of her chair as if it would open up and swallow her up – in the middle of a Muggle restaurant._

_“No – no! Draco! No. Fuck you, I am not trying the lamb kidneys. No. No! You—stop it!”_

_“Darling,” Draco heaved between silent, near-painful laughs, “Just one bite! One bite. Just—”_

_“Draco Malfoy, so help me, I’ll—” she looked around suspiciously, checking for possible Muggle listeners – “I will sic the same flock of birds I set on Ron in 6th year on you if you don’t let up right this moment.”_

_Draco’s froze, fork suspended in mid-air. “You wouldn’t.”_

_Hermione gave him a coy smile. “I think you know I would.”_

_Draco pouted. “I’m just trying to expand your horizons, love.”_

_Hermione’s mouth fell open in shock, and Draco instantly knew he had made a mistake. “Draco, you know I’m trying to go pescatarian for the month! You can’t tempt me less than two weeks in! I mean, really, and you act li—”_

_Draco cut her off, swooping in with a mind-melting kiss. Pulling away, he smirked. “Sorry, what were you saying?”_

Hermione was shaken out of her reverie by the sound of her oldest friend’s name out of Astoria’s mouth.

“—Harry, really, you’ve got to let the man get out more! If he hadn’t been so swamped that month, the contracts probably would’ve been signed in a week—”

“Work? July?” Harry interjected. “But we didn’t have a ca—what the fuck, Ginny!”

Ginny, whose eyes had been rapidly widening since Hermione’s question minutes earlier, had chosen that precise moment to spill a very full glass of wine directly onto Harry’s lap.

“Oh, bugger!” She said, jumping up and performing a quick scourgify. “So sorry, love, I think I’ve had a bit much tonight. I should probably get going!”

Ginny Weasley did not call Harry Potter ‘love.’ Harry squinted at her, adjusting his glasses. “Are you sure you’re alright?” Harry questioned.

“No! Yes. No. I mean – I should just get home. But I’m fine. Or rather, I’ll be fine once I can get back to the flat. Hermione’ll Floo back with me. Right, Hermione?”

“Nonsense, Ginevra, you haven’t even had dessert yet. And we have sober-up potions here. I swear, you lot forget we’re bloody wizards sometimes. As if I’d let you leave my home without finishing your meal,” Blaise scoffed.

Ginny, who was already pushing her chair back in, looked back and forth between Blaise and Hermione frantically. “Uh, no, Blaise, I’d really love to stay, but seriously, I’m feeling really quite ill from all that champagne and besides, Hermione’s got that paperwork thingy for the French Ministry tomorrow morning anyway, got to be up early!”

“Right,” Blaise began suspiciously. “Well—”

“Blaise, darling, I really must be off too,” Astoria interrupted. “I’m meeting Tracey in the morning for coffee. Hermione, I’m having my engagement dress fitting Thursday with Pansy and Daph, you’ll be there, won’t you? I’ll be sure to owl. I know Tracey would love to meet the fourth bridesmaid!”

Every individual at the table snapped to attention at that, eyebrows raised and eyes widening as the tension in the room stretched taut.

“I— yes, I’ll see if I can make it work.”

Astoria rose from her seat, Draco quickly following. “Lovely! Draco, escort me home?”

“Of course,” the blonde said quietly as he offered his arm and disapparated the pair in a flash.

“Well,” George said. “This has been fun. Very fun. Not awkward at all. No conversations to be had tomorrow, that’s for sure. Not at all entertaining. I’ll be off, then.”

As the older Weasley made his exit, the youngest took the opportunity to make her way around the table, grab Hermione’s hand, and speed towards the fireplace, Hermione making broken apologies until Ginny dragged her through the Floo to their shared flat, leaving the remaining Slytherin quartet, Harry, Ron, and Parvati still sitting at the table.

As more and more of the night’s guests disappeared, Ron – who had spent the entirety of the meal conversing with Parvati in stolen glances alone – had started to look more and more uncomfortable, watching the Slytherins stealing covert glances at each other with an odd mix of emotions Ron couldn’t quite name. “Right, big day tomorrow at the, uh, store. Got to go.” He grabbed Parvati’s hand and the girl was hardly able to spare a quick wave before the redhead apparated them away.

“Right,” Harry began, placing his napkin neatly on the table. “I’m not going to pretend I know what just happened, because I most definitely fucking don’t, but my Auror training is telling me you lot—” he circled his finger in the air at the table’s other residents “–are about to start plotting, so I’m going. Don’t kill anyone.”

“Bye, Potter,” Blaise said half-heartedly, waving him off.

Harry threw a mock salute at the man, strolling towards the Floo as if it were any other night and receiving absolutely no goodbyes from the remaining trio.

An utterly gobsmacked Blaise was left at the head of the table with thirteen plates of torta d’olio, a massive tub of honey gelato, an exasperated Theo, a miserable Daphne, and an utterly fuming Pansy.

“Will someone kindly tell me what the fuck just happened?”


	5. The Hangover

_**Saturday, August 29, 10 AM** _

Hermione’s head was pounding as if a herd of erumpents had just stampeded over her entire body and through her flat.

“Fuck,” she groaned, trying to sit up from the very uncomfortable pseudo-fetal position she had manage to wriggle herself into on an illegally uncomfortable armchair that really had to be replaced soon. “What the fuck.”

She slowly raised herself into a semi-sitting pose, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. Cracking one eye just a smidge, she glanced around, memories flooding back.

“Fuck,” she repeated.

_You’d think I’d be able to shelve the self-loathing for just half a second_ , she thought to herself, irritated.

Continuing her perusal of the room, she counted four empty bottles: three of wine, scattered around the room, and another – this one firewhiskey – sitting on the centre of the coffee table, next to Hermione’s wand and on top of a small note with Hermione’s name on it.

_Hermione –_

_Gone to fetch brekkie with Pans. Be back in a few – do NOT go anywhere!_

_\- Gin_

Head pounding with the mild exertion of reading the note, Hermione glanced back towards the table, registering the glass of water and vial of clear violet liquid, then back towards the note in her hands.

_P.S. Sober-Up on the table_

Squinting suspiciously at the shot, she glanced back down at the note.

_P.P.S. It’s just a bloody sober-up potion, Granger, just fucking take it. No one’s trying to poison you in your own flat, for the love of Merlin. -Pansy_

_P.P.P.S. If you don’t take it I’ll shove it down your throat when I’m back xoxo Gin_

Shaking her head, Hermione did what she was told – shockingly – grabbing the violet potion and downing it like a shot. She stood, wincing at the jolt of pain in the back of her head as she headed for the bathroom: a grave misjudgement.

“Fuck,” she groaned, again.

Looking back at her was a woman with red-rimmed eyes puffier than she had ever seen them, face tear-streaked and pale. Her hair was almost floating in a frizzy halo reminiscent of her pre-glamour-charm teenage years and there were more than a few unidentifiable stains across her shirt. The last time Hermione had looked this awful, she was 17 and running from a group of violent, bloodthirsty snatchers and the most murderous psychopath of all time. At least then, she was wearing trousers.

The memories floated back in pieces – Hermione and Ginny stumbling through the Floo; Hermione collapsing onto the nearest chair, summoning the nearest bottle of wine rather than take the effort to stand and retrieve it. Ginny, looking at her appraisingly for a moment with concern in her eyes before shrugging and summoning her own bottle wordlessly, drinking in silence for less than ten minutes before Hermione had abruptly shot out of her chair like a firebolt, rushing into her room, re-emerging with a pile of clothes, books, truffles, and absurdly expensive jewellery. Ginny’s eyebrows had shot up to her hairline as she watched Hermione drop the items onto the floor, enchanting one item in particular to float in mid-air before brandishing her wand to perform a particularly hair-raising – and rather unnecessary – bombarda. Ginny had hardly been able to throw up a hasty shield before the first target – a gorgeous, and most likely heinously expensive, green skirt.

_“I had wondered why your wardrobe had seemingly magically expanded to be at least half green,” Ginny commented drily._

_Hermione looked down at the green dress she still wore. In a frenzy, she cast her wand to the floor and tore the dress off, ripping it as she pulled it over her head (forgoing, or perhaps forgetting, the much easier method of simply untying the ribbon at her waist). Standing in nothing but a black bodysuit, Hermione threw the dress to the ground – not bothering to levitate it this time – and set it aflame, watching, emotionless, as the fabric reduced to ashes._

An hour later, Pansy had stormed through the Floo, only to come to a sudden halt as she took in the scene before her.

_“I’m going to fucking kill Draco Malfoy, I swear to fucking Salazar, not to mention The—Hermione, why the fuck are you in your knickers? And what the fuck happened here?”_

_Hermione, who had long since finished her wine, took a particularly long swig of firewhiskey in response._

_“Nice of you to finally show up, Parkinson,” Ginny quipped._

_“I was attempting damage control.”_

_“You mean you were plotting.”_

_Pansy rolled her eyes. “Obviously. You’re not answering my question.”_

_Ginny snorted. “Pansy, if you showed up here looking for answers to your questions, you’re going to be sadly disappointed. She refuses to talk.”_

_Pansy paused, wheels visibly turning in her head. “Fine,” she began slowly, clearly dissatisfied with her options. “Then we’ll drink.”_

“Hermione?” Ginny shouted from the kitchen.

“Coming,” Hermione called back half-heartedly.

Hermione exited the bathroom and trudged towards the source of Ginny’s voice. She stopped behind the counter, fiddling with the hem of her shirt to avoid the knowing eyes of her friends. “Hello,” she offered weakly.

Pansy and Ginny shared a knowing look.

“Hello to you too, Granger,” Pansy said, handing Hermione a cup of steaming hot coffee.

“We brought croissants,” Ginny offered, offering her a paper bag.

“Oh, I’m not really hungry,” Hermione began, only to be immediately faced with the most Molly-Weasley-like expression she had ever seen on Ginny’s face. She immediately dug a buttery croissant out of the bag and ripped a piece off, shoving it in her mouth quickly lest she encounter an infamous Weasley lecture.

The girls were silent for a few minutes, allowing Hermione to devour one croissant, then two, then a blueberry scone and two cups of coffee before Pansy finally spoke.

“Are you finally going to tell us what happened?” She asked, uncharacteristically gentle.

The room was silent for a moment, Ginny and Pansy’s eyes locked on their curly-haired friend, Hermione’s own gaze glued to her now-empty recyclable coffee cup.

“You don’t have to, but you know we only want to help, Hermione,” Ginny offered reassuringly.

“No,” Hermione responded. “No, I should tell you.”

She launched into the tale from the very beginning: Hermione and Draco’s obvious attraction for each other after the war, at Hogwarts; almost six years of stolen glances and brushing hands. That dinner in January, when the rest of the guests had left Draco’s flat, but she had stayed behind, still nursing a glass of Ogden’s. Eight months of expensive gifts and office shags.

Eight months of lies.

“Fuck, Hermione,” Ginny muttered. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell us any of this? I mean, I think we all had our suspicions, but I didn’t think you were actually shagging. I mean, you’ve been dancing around each other for ages. I didn’t think that was going to change now.” She paused thoughtfully before spinning to face Pansy. “Wait. Did you know?”

The Slytherin shrugged. “I had a theory. But I didn’t know. Until Theo and Daph told me last night.”

Ginny’s eyes boggled. “Nott knew? What the fuck?”

Hermione groaned. “Fuck, I forgot about Daph. She couldn’t even look at me last night. And it’s her fucking sister. I think she’s furious with me. But I seriously had no idea any of this was happening. Fuck,” she repeated, throwing her upper half onto the table.

Pansy reached over and placed a hand on Hermione’s arm. “She’s not furious, don’t be daft. She feels guilty and you know how good she is at avoidance. And she has no idea who to support here. She’s torn between two of her best friends and her literal sister. It’s an impossible position, and you know that.”

“But I’m not even asking her to take sides,” Hermione responded, muffled by the table.

Pansy pulled the girl up by the back of her shirt. “No, but she hates conflict. Come on, Hermione, you know that, at least, has nothing to do with you. She’s literally Astoria’s maid of honour. She has no idea what to do with this whole fucking thing. But she does blame Draco, I can tell you that.”

“Why is no one answering my fucking question? What do you mean, Theo and Daph knew?” Ginny exclaimed, exasperated.

Hermione threw herself back onto the table, earning Ginny a sharp look from Pansy. “They walked in on us once,” Hermione explained, muffled once more by the table.

Ginny’s jaw dropped, clearly ready to ask more questions, but the ginger was silenced by a signature Parkinson Glare. Silence fell over the room once more.

Hermione peeked over her arms at the remaining bags on the table, snaking one hand out to grab another croissant. She remained slumped over the table for a while, ripping the bread to shreds and popping tiny pieces into her mouth, light slowly returning to her eyes. Suddenly, she snapped into an upright position.

“Pansy, where the fuck were you before you came over last night?”

Pansy groaned. “You’re going to need more coffee for this.”

_____________________________________

_**Fourteen and a Half Hours Earlier, Blaise Zabini’s Flat** _

_**Friday, August 28, 7:31 PM** _

“Will someone kindly tell me what the fuck just happened?”

Theo shot up from his seat, throwing his napkin onto his chair. “As if it wasn’t entirely fucking obvious? Come on Zabini, you’re going soft.”

“Never heard of a rhetorical question, Nott?”

“Stop it, both of you,” Daphne spoke, softly but firmly. “This is not the time.”

Both of the men softened at the blonde’s words.

“Sorry, Daph,” Blaise responded quietly. “You’re right.” After a pause, he continued: “Shall we start with the basics? I’ve never been able to confirm it, but I genuinely thought Draco and Hermione had some sort of secret fucking relationship going or something. I mean, they have lunch together like every other day, they mysteriously disappear every so often at dinner, Malfoy fucking lights up like a bloody Christmas tree every time he sees her, and let’s be honest, Granger’s been taking some really fucking suspicious ‘work trips’ recently that have weirdly coincided with Draco’s so-called ‘estate meetings.’ And they’ve been pining after each other for years, I thought they’d just finally started shagging. And did you see the look on Hermione’s face? I mean, I know Gryffindors are, you know, heart on their sleeve and all, but it was like, another fucking level. But there’s no way Malfoy would’ve let her go if he had gotten her. So they must not be shagging. Right?”

There was no response. Theo was glaring intently at a spot on the floor, shuffling his feet back and forth as if he might sink into the ground. Daphne closed her eyes, lowering her head into her hands. Blaise’s eyes darted back and forth between the couple.

“What exactly,” he began, enunciating each word with painful slowness, “do the two of you—” he pointed his fingers in a V at the two of them “—know that I obviously do not?”

Theo let out a deep sigh. “They were.”

“They were what, Theo?”

“Shagging.”

Even Pansy – who had been otherwise silent – snapped up at that.

Blaise slumped back in his chair. “For how long?”

“January.”

“And you know this how?”

“We walked in on them once. Before dinner. In June.”

“Wasn’t that just weeks before he received a sodding contract from the Greengrasses and took Astoria out?”

“Yes.”

Blaise planted his hands on the table, slowly rising to his feet. “So. You mean to tell me that you knew Draco was shagging and possibly in love with another woman and the two of you decided to allow him to not only get himself engaged, but engaged to Daphne’s little sister? Seriously, mate?”

“Do not start with that, Zabini, it’s not like he asked our bloody permi—”

“I can’t do this,’ Daphne murmured quietly. She rose gracefully from the table, pushing her chair back in as she backed away. She turned her eyes on Blaise. “I’m already torn in three different directions, Blaise, and I won’t have you tearing me in a fourth. I’ve done everything I could. I can’t sit here and talk about my oldest friend, my best friend, and my sister and try to scheme over them when one will inevitably get hurt. And I know none of you bear the same responsibility to Tori, but if you know what’s good for you, you won’t meddle in Hermione or Draco’s love life. You know how they are. I can’t stop you, but I won’t participate.”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment before Blaise inclined his head slightly, demonstrating his understanding.

Theo strode towards her. “Do you want me to come back with you?” He offered, taking her hands.

Daphne gave him a soft smile, her first genuine one of the night. “No, you should stay. Sort this out. I’ll see you at home.” She placed a hand on his cheek and rose onto her toes, stretching up to plant a sweet kiss on his lips.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too,” she said equally quietly, squeezing his hand before turning to her friends. “Pans. Blaise.” She gave them each a nod before disapparating with a crack.

Silence filled the room for a moment as Blaise sank back into his chair.

“Are you both quite finished?” Pansy snipped, so unexpectedly that the boys startled. “It’s a rhetorical question. I know we’ve had trouble with those tonight. I’m going to lay out the plan, and neither of you are going to speak until I’ve finished. Do you understand?”

Theo and Blaise shared a glance of confirmation before nodding.

“Good. Now. We know Hermione and Draco have been shagging. We know that he’s most certainly not in love with Astoria, no matter how hard he’s pretending.”

At this, Theo opened his mouth to speak, only to be promptly silenced by a wandless Silencio.

“Yes, Theo, I know you _think_ he seems happy. Astoria has always been a nice girl. She’s pleasant and smart and honestly, she’s insufferably nice. I don’t know how either her or Daphne were ever sorted into Slytherin. I’m sure Draco likes her, and I’m sure he will appreciate her understanding of his family and his background and history. They probably have had a good conversation or two, but let’s not pretend he’s in love with her or that she’ll ever be the type of match for him that Hermione obviously is.” Witnessing the obviously discomfited look on Theo’s face, she continued. “And yes, it’s no secret that I’m not her biggest fan and that the undercurrent of our relationship is that Daphne was the first female friend I ever had, and Tori is her sister, whether I like it or not. But I don’t hate her, whatever you might think, and I do wish her well. I just know that “well” is never going to be Draco Malfoy.

“We also know that Blaise is right. If Draco Malfoy truly had Hermione Granger in his hands, there is absolutely no way he would let her go. If I know Draco – and I do – I would bet 50 galleons on the man misinterpreting something Hermione said, letting self-loathing and his whole “I’m a Death Eater unworthy of happiness” concept flood his brain, and then relegating himself to abandon his own happiness and focus on Narcissa’s by allowing her to give him what she’s always wanted for him: a ‘happy’ marriage.” She leaned back triumphantly, satisfied with her evaluation.

Blaise looked to her as if for permission to speak. She nodded slightly, granting it. “I’m guessing you have a plan, then?”

She smirked. “Get a piece of parchment and a quill.”

_____________________________________

_**Friday, August 28, 8:22 PM** _

Pansy Parkinson was draped elegantly across a plush leather armchair in Blaise Zabini’s study, holding a freshly-made vodka martini in one hand and the martini’s speared olives in the other. Despite her lounging position, her clothes remained pristine and unwrinkled, her crisp black cigarette trousers melded to her body as if they had been made for her – which they had – and her deep purple, almost black blouse clinging to her like a second skin, the neckline tracing her collarbones from shoulder to shoulder, the sleeves reaching the goblin-wrought cuff on her wrist. She took a sip of her martini, then tugged an olive off the spear with her teeth, closing her eyes to savour the briny flavour.

To an outsider, the woman might have looked calm, almost serene.

To those who knew her, however, this was an extremely dangerous Pansy to find.

You see, Pansy Parkinson was not a serene person. Pansy was passionate, intense, aggressive. She was strategic, cunning, and utterly brilliant. Of course, you could often find the woman taking a quiet moment to evaluate a situation, appraising her options before determining which of her skills were to be used to handle any given problem. But tranquillity, peacefulness, placidity – those were not in Pansy’s nature.

Her calmest moments came after her evaluations and appraisals, once the strategizing was complete and a plan was clear in her head.

And those moments were deadly.

Right now, Pansy Parkinson was the very definition of “calm before the storm.”

Forty-five minutes ago exactly, Blaise had sent a hurried owl to Draco, requesting his presence back at Blaise’s flat as soon as he was able and keenly omitting the fact that two other Slytherins were present. Fifteen minutes later, they had received a response, confirming that Draco would arrive before 8:30.

Theo had spent the last half hour pacing the room, casting a tempus charm every 2 minutes to see how much time remained. Blaise – ever the Chef – had busied himself with properly packaging and owling all of the dessert plates from earlier in the evening to their intended consumers, tidying up his flat as he went.

And Pansy had made herself three vodka martinis with four olives each.

Now, they were down to the wire, the plan being clear: ward the flat immediately to prevent Draco from fleeing the moment he arrived, sit him in a chair, and ply him with alcohol until he spilled every detail of exactly why he had decided to abandon Hermione Granger – the woman he had obviously been pining after for more than half a decade – in favour of a woman who would never make him happy the way the Gryffindor did.

It was an excellent plan – and the only one, if Pansy was being honest.

At 8:25, the study Floo flared to life.

Blaise strode quickly into the room – the man never “rushed” – as Theo froze mid-pace, schooled his features, straightened his emerald-green, cable-knit sweater, and half-sat, half-stood on the edge of Blaise’s desk.

Pansy swung her feet to the ground, gliding to her feet before approaching the tall, blonde man.

“Hello, Draco.”

Draco sighed heavily. “I’m sure I should have expected this, honestly.”

“Yes, you should have.”

“You gonna tell us what the fuck happened tonight, mate?” Theo chimed in.

Draco strode to Blaise’s liquor stores, pouring himself a glass of decanted Muggle whiskey. “I have absolutely no idea what you mean,” he drawled.

“Are you going to tell us what the fuck happened with Hermione?”

“I wasn’t aware that anything happened with Granger.”

Pansy’s eyes flashed with anger. “Don’t toy with us, Malfoy.”

“I wasn’t aware that I was toying with anyone or anything, _Parkinson_.”

“You’re most certainly toying with Hermione Granger,” she fired back. “Not to mention Astoria Greengrass.”

His nostrils flared as he spun around to face her. “Do not talk about my engagement like that, Pansy.”

“Don’t bother with the theatrics, Malfoy. We know everything. We all know. But what I’m interested in finding out is why the fuck you decided to drop the woman you’ve been pining over for years, Hermione fucking Granger, when you finally had her for the first time in your sad life just to contract yourself over to Astoria bloody Gree—”

“I will warn you one more time, Parkinson. Do not. Talk. About. My. Engagement. Since you clearly have nothing positive to say, I recommend that you keep all of your thoughts to yourself. And you most certainly will not talk to me about Hermione Granger.”

Theo and Blaise exchanged a concerned look, watching their plans derail before their very eyes. Parkinson-Malfoy fights were legendary, events that were truly for the history books, the last one having happened over 3 years ago now. Once they began, they were impossible to break up from the outside – like a particularly vicious train wreck, one could only watch as the involved parties went up in flames.

Pansy slammed her martini onto the bar cart, pointing her now-empty olive spear at the man: her first friend, first lover, first heartbreak, and best friend of over 20 years. “I do not take orders from you, Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

“Watch it, Pansy,” he spat, reaching for his wand.

“I find it really fucking funny that you’re the one telling me to watch it, when you’re the one who’s too fucking proud to tell the woman you lov—”

“For once in your fucking life, keep your mouth shut and stay out of my business, Pansy!” Draco bellowed.

The woman recoiled, her mouth falling open. “Do not make me regret being your friend, Draco.”

“Funny, I wasn’t aware we were friends. I thought friends made it a habit of supporting each other. How interesting.” He cocked his head to the side and downed his whiskey in one.

“That’s how you want to play it? Fine, then. If I’m not your friend, do not make me your enemy, Draco Malfoy,” Pansy hissed.

“Enemy?” Draco scoffed. “When you can clearly hardly manage being my friend, I’m not sure enmity is that far off. Be my fucking guest. Get the fuck out of here, Parkinson. I’m trying to have a drink with my friends.”

Watching the confrontation spiral further and further out of hand, Blaise jumped in at his own peril, trying to ease the tension: “Draco, mate—”

“No, Blaise,” Pansy began, voice shaking. “Draco wants us to be enemies? Fine by me. I’m leaving. Enjoy your drink, Malfoy,” she spat.

“Pansy, wait—” Theo attempted.

“No. I’ll see you later, Blaise, Theo.” She grabbed a handful of Floo powder and threw it into the fireplace. “Hermione Granger’s Flat!”

_____________________________________

“Jesus Christ, Pansy. He really said that?” Hermione asked.

“I seriously still do not understand your Muggle sayings. But yes.”

“You really said you were his enemy now?”

Pansy shrugged.

“You know, today I’m more grateful than ever than I’m not a ferret,” Ginny declared sagely.

Hermione let out a bewildered giggle, then a short cackle, and before long she was laughing so hard tears were spilling down her face, bewildering both her friends until they couldn’t help but join in, leaving the trio collapsing of laughter over muffin crumbs and coffee dregs.


	6. An Interlude In Which Everyone Is Now A Private Investigator

**_Friday, August 28, 7:26 PM: Ron’s Flat above Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes_ **

Parvati smacked Ron’s arm the second they landed in his Diagon Alley flat.

“Ow! That hurt, Parvati! What the bloody hell was that for!”

“Why did you do that!”

“Do what!’

“Leave so abruptly!”

“Didn’t you see how awkward it was getting? I didn’t want to have to deal with a bunch of Slytherins doing their weird emotions-through-a-single-look thing for any longer than we already had!”

Parvati smacked him again. “I wanted to know what was going on!”

“What do you mean, what was going on? Wasn’t it obvious?”

“The only obvious thing in that room was the palpable tension and the weird conversation between Malfoy and Hermione! They’re never like that! They’re always aggressively flirting or blushing at each other or bantering as foreplay!”

“Are you mental? He brought his fiancée! Why would he be ‘bantering as foreplay’ with Hermione!”

“Because they’re obviously in love with each other, you dolt!”

“Clearly not, if he’s engaged!”

“God, Ron, you can be so daft sometimes! Are you seriously telling me you don’t think Hermione and Draco have had some weird thing going on for months, maybe even years? Haven’t you noticed how they disappear together every week at dinner for 15 minutes and Malfoy always comes back looking like the cat that got the bloody canary?”

“Don’t talk about canaries, Parv, I still have nightmares from sixth year.”

_____________________________________

**_Friday, August 28, 11:16 PM: Theo and Daphne’s Flat_ **

“Pansy seriously said that, Theo? Draco seriously let her leave like that?”

“Yeah. It was fucking awful. But that’s not even all of it.”

_____________________________________

**_Friday, August 28, 8:49 PM: Blaise Zabini’s Flat_ **

Once Pansy disappeared, Draco staggered over to the nearest chair and sank into it – coincidentally, the same plush armchair Pansy had sat in waiting for Draco for the past hour. “Fuck,” he groaned. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”

“Understatement of the fucking century, mate,” Theo grumbled.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Blaise demanded.

“I wasn’t, obviously. Pansy just riles me up sometimes. You know how we can get.”

“You’re a real git sometimes, Malfoy, you know that?”

“I do, yes.”

“So,” Theo began, plopping himself down into a chair across from Draco. “I’m only going to ask this once, as your best mate, Hermione’s friend, and, apparently, as Astoria’s future brother-in-law. What happened with you and Granger such that you decided to ambush first me and Daphne, then the rest of your friends, with a surprise betrothal that coincidentally occurred in a whirlwind during the three weeks Hermione happened to be away?”

Draco groaned, pressing his face into his hands. “I don’t know why everyone keeps asking me about Granger. She has nothing to do with this.”

Theo let out a disbelieving bark of laughter, striding over from his desk to take over a third armchair. “You might get away with that with anyone else, mate, but not us.”

Blaise shot Theo a warning look. “We’re just… concerned, Draco.”

Draco remained hunched over, abandoning years of pureblood etiquette lessons on proper posture and propriety in what Theo and Blaise knew to be an uncharacteristically vulnerable moment.

“Fine. I’m just going to start from the beginning, for Blaise’s benefit.”

Draco’s story was exceedingly similar to Hermione’s, at first: an unlikely friendship at Hogwarts, years of pining, irritation – and sometimes anger – when Hermione received attention from men who were not Draco, and finally, a drink too many that fateful January night.

But that was where the similarities ended.

As Draco told it, he had been trying to confess his feelings to Hermione for months, trying everything from Muggle traditions to Pureblood courting customs. He had sent her what he believed to be love letters, bought her the most beautiful clothes and jewellery any woman could ask for, purchased every book she ever demonstrated even a hint of interest in before she had the chance to buy it herself. He had taken her to the Malfoy Chateau and to endless teas and dinners with his mother. He had even gone to Weasley brunches at the bloody Burrow, for the love of Merlin.

All the while, Narcissa’s concern continued to grow that Draco would be the first Malfoy and second Black in family history to remain unmarried at the age of 25 for any reason other than death itself. While the woman had abandoned her ideas of pureblood supremacy years ago, when her husband was sentenced to life in Azkaban and after none other than Harry Potter and Hermione Granger had taken the stand to defend her at her trial, certain cultural elements were not so easily shaken. And Draco, who had, after the war, vowed that he alone would ensure his mother would never be unhappy again, was devastated by her worry. The issue began driving a wedge between them – Malfoys never fought, but they were excellent perpetrators of the silent treatment – and Draco had had enough. A day in early June, not long after his 24th birthday, had changed everything.

_The Malfoys were having yet another uncomfortable dinner, silent but for the occasionally scrape of knife to plate or the tap of a fork spearing another bite. Draco was exhausted, and more than a little heartbroken that this, this non-issue, would be the driving wedge between them after they had suffered through so much._

_In an uncharacteristic display of cultural rebellion, he threw his utensils onto his plate, the clink of the metal echoing through the otherwise-quiet room. “Are you ever going to tell me what’s the matter?”_

_Narcissa raised her eyebrows haughtily. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, darling.”_

_“I think you do, mother.”_

_“How is Miss Granger?”_

_Draco stilled. “I—she’s well, . Wh—”_

_“I ask,” she said, cutting him off smoothly, “because I had thought you and Hermione were— carrying on, as it were, but it has been four years that you have been dancing around her, maybe more, and six months since you began bringing her here to see me more regularly than you have ever brought anyone, even Miss Parkinson, and yet you insist that there is nothing between the two of you. I’m beginning to have concerns that you may think I still retain my… previous beliefs regarding her… heritage,” she sniffed, dabbing her mouth delicately with the edge of a napkin._

_“How could you say that, mum?”_

_“Well, I’m really not sure what else to think, Draco! Why on earth else would you be avoiding pursuit of a woman whom you are obviously greatly enamoured with? I can’t think of another reason, so if there is one, I beg you to enlighten me,” Narcissa exclaimed, her voice trembling._

_Draco was stunned. “I—mum, are you alright? You don’t seem—”_

_“I am perfectly fine, Draco Lucius Malfoy. I would be much better if you would simply answer my question with a direct response. Are you or are you not avoiding pursuit of Hermione Granger because you fear I will not accept her?”_

_“No. That’s not it at all. It’s—it’s not like that between us. She doesn’t feel that way.”_

_Narcissa let out an entirely unladylike scoff. “You are blind, my dear.”_

_“No, I—I’m not. You’re not wrong, we have been,” he shifted uncomfortably, “‘Carrying on’, as you said. For about six months. But it isn’t like that for her.”_

_“And is it ‘like that’ for you?”_

_He clenched his right hand under the table, digging his nails into his palms. “I—no. No, it’s not.”_

_It can’t be, he thought._

_Narcissa looked at her son sceptically. Catching her expression, he continued._

_“I don’t see why this concerns you this much, anyway, mother. I am 24 years old. And you’re not even 50, mother, hardly ancient.”_

_In that moment, however, his mother had never looked older. She gripped her napkin unbearably tightly. “I’m dying, Draco.”_

_The man froze. When he spoke, his voice was naught but a whisper. “What?”_

_“It’s—it’s not imminent. But the time frame varies. It could be one year or ten or perhaps even thirty. They don’t know.”_

_Draco could hardly trust himself to speak. “What do you mean, they? What’s happened?”_

_Narcissa looked away from her son, eyes glistening with unshed tears as she turned her gaze to the wall. “It began with a slight trembling in my hands. Then some shakiness in my vision, unsteady balance. I thought it was something small, simply, an illness a potion or two couldn’t fix. But—they believe it to be a case of overexposure to Dark magic.” A tear finally fell, then, hitting her plate with an unheard splat. “It may deteriorate, or it may not. There is no way to know.”_

_Draco rushed out of his seat, falling to his knees next to his mother’s chair. “We can fix it, mother. We’ll – we’ll hire the best Healers. There are studies, rumours that the Department of Mysteries is evaluating the effects of the cr—”_

_“No, darling. My condition is my penance.” Narcissa gave her son – her greatest blessing in this life – a small, weak smile, grasping his hands with one of her own and placing another on his cheek. The man leaned into her touch as he did when he was a little boy, comforted by his mother after a particularly nasty fall from a broom or an even nastier reprimand from his father. “All I want, my dear, is for you to have someone of your own once I am gone. I have been your family, my love, and you have been mine, but you must have your own. I could not live with myself should I leave you alone once more.”_

“Holy shit, Draco. I had no idea.”

“I’m so sorry, mate.”

Draco shook his head. “We still don’t know the prognosis. She could live as long as Dumbledore, for all we know. But stress worsens it, and it’s obvious that this has been stressing her beyond belief. So I agreed to start responding to the proposals we had gotten.”

“Fuck. What did Hermione say?” Blaise asked.

Draco huffed bitterly. “That’s the thing. She didn’t. I warned her beforehand, told her I was doing it for mother, and she laughed it off. I was photographed in Witch Weekly with Stella bloody Rosier, nothing. Told her about a date with Marjorie Flint—”

“Marcus’ cousin? She’s a fucking menace!” Theo exclaimed.

“Yeah, she really is. But anyway, no response. I went out with at least 7 different women and she literally said nothing. They were all awful, though, so it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to marry them even if you paid me, and some of them were literally offering to. But then Tori’s parents sent over a proposal. I put it off for a few weeks because she’s Daph’s sister and I didn’t want to drag Daph into it, but mother insisted I’d like her. So I went. Took her to a Muggle place so Daph wouldn’t see it in the papers. And it wasn’t awful! I honestly had a good time. She’s nice, smart. She reads, she likes children. She works, unlike most pureblood women. But I was in love with Hermione. So I made a decision. I would try one more time to tell her, directly, no workarounds or gestures, just the words. And if she turned me down, I’d go forward with Tori.”

“And? Are you seriously trying to tell us Granger rejected you?” Theo scoffed.

“Worse than that. She wouldn’t even let me get it out. I tried telling her the morning before she left. I barely got the first syllable out before she cut me off and practically threw me into the Floo. So that was my answer, I guess. I took a day to drink excessively and rage about, and then I got on with it. Mum’s happy, and I do like Tori, really. So it all worked out, I guess.”

Theo and Blaise exchanged an incredulous look, mouths agape.

“Look,” Blaise began placatingly, only to be immediately cut off by Theo.

“—you’re the biggest bloody tosser in the history of tossers, you know that?”

_____________________________________

**_Friday, August 28, 11:32 PM: Theo and Daphne’s Flat_ **

“Are you serious? That’s the whole story? He tried to tell her once after eight months of shagging and six years of friendship and then just abandoned the whole thing?”

“I know. He’s a fucking idiot, and we told him as much.”

“That doesn’t even begin to cover it! I mean, I was confused, but this is an entirely new level of idiocy. And he seriously thinks this whole sacrificial lamb bit is actually making Narcissa happy?”

“Well, she doesn’t know. In her mind, he realized him and Granger were better as friends and fell hard for Tori. But if she knew, she’s be furious with him.”

“Theo, I know I’m not supposed to take sides here, but right about now I’d really like to go smack Draco about the head and tell him to pull it out of his arse.”

“I’m with you there, darling. But it kind of makes sense though, doesn’t it? He’s always been sure he’s not worthy of anything, former Death Eater and all. And Hermione’s always been his weakest spot. Being rejected by her would initiate an entirely new level of self-loathing.”

“But he wasn’t rejected by her, Theo!”

“Wasn’t he? I mean, she apparently kicked him out of her apartment. Sounds like a rejection to me.”

“Theo, I love you, but you’re a fool if you seriously think that’s exactly what happened.”

“Well, what else could have happened?”

“I don’t know, and I’m not officially a part of this, but _you_ are going to find out.”

_____________________________________

**_Saturday, August 29, 9:17 AM: Rosa Lee Teabag_ **

“So what do you think was going on?”

“I don’t know, Trace, but it was weird. I mean, I’ve been to those dinners a couple times before, and they usually spend the whole time bantering at each other, it’s exhausting. But yesterday was different. It wasn’t banter, it was genuine tension.”

“Not of the sexual variety, I hope.”

“Tracey!”

“What? Cassius says he sees it. He saw them at the Leaky together once, having lunch. Apparently they were all over each other.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. You should ask Draco if there was ever anything between them.”

“Do I really want to know? And do you really think he’d even tell me? It’s not like I haven’t had my own dalliances.”

“Tori, seriously, who says dalliances anymore?”

Astoria rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I’ve asked her to be a bridesmaid. If there was anything, it’s certainly over now. And they’ve been best friends so long, I’d hardly want to break that alliance. Besides, she seems nice, and she really is brilliant. We might even be friends.”

Tracey’s eyes widened. “It’s a risky choice.”

“I don’t think so. I mean, Hermione Granger is hardly the type of person to try and break up another person’s relationship, let alone her best friend’s. And I do want to get to know her better, considering she’s best friends with my fiancé, my sister, and my future brother-in-law. It had to happen eventually.”

“Careful, Tori. You’re so blasé about this, someone might think you don’t care at all that another woman might be after your boyfriend.”

Astoria paused uncomfortably, coffee halfway to her mouth. “I do feel a bit territorial, but if anything, I think Hermione might be angrier because she wasn’t informed about the engagement than anything else.”

Tracey looked at her friend sympathetically. “Are you sure you’re happy with all of this, Tori?”

She set the cup back down gingerly, gazing away thoughtfully. “I mean, I like Draco quite a bit, and I am fond of him, but I can’t say I love him, although I’m sure I could eventually. But I am happy, and I think I’ll be happier as time goes on. We just need to get to know each other a bit better.”

Tracey nodded in understanding. “It was the same with me and Cassius. I’m sure you’ll fall for him once you just spend a bit more time together.” She paused. “In the meantime, though, _I_ will be keeping an eye on Hermione Granger if you won’t.”

_____________________________________

**_Saturday, August 29, 3:26 PM: The Quidditch Pitch at Malfoy Manor_ **

“So are you ever going to talk to Granger?”

Draco scoffed, hoisting his broom up. “She made it very clear last night that she didn’t want to hear it.”

Blaise shot Draco an incredulous glare. “You can’t be serious. You had literally just shown up with a fiancée after over half a year of shagging. You really thought she’d take that well?”

“I didn’t know she’d be there.”

“So, what? You thought you’d tell all of the rest of your friends and hers and leave her out of it entirely until she came back? You know how much she hates not knowing things.”

“I figured one of you would fill her in and I’d avoid being thrown out of her apartment again. And besides, I brought Tori to dinner last week. I figured someone would’ve caught Granger up by the time she found out the rest.”

Blaise raised his eyebrows. “No, mate, you did not bring her to dinner last week. You convinced Tori to drop hints to Daphne about wanting to know us better, and then tricked me into asking Daphne to ask her if she wanted to come and simultaneously arranged it with Astoria to make sure she said yes. I’m fairly sure Pansy was the only one who suspected anything. And Daphne’s brought Tori before, why would any of us have mentioned it to Granger? Don’t lie to me, mate, it’s beneath you.”

He received no response, but pressed on nonetheless. “So why’d you spring it on us, then? Why spring it on Granger?”

Draco sighed. “If I answer, will you stop asking me this many bloody questions and go back to playing Quidditch?”

“Quidditch, yes. The rest, probably not."

“I didn’t tell anyone before because I knew you that if I did, you lot would all try and talk me out of it, and I’d probably end up cursing the lot of you into the next century. I’m not willing to hear anyone slander Tori, and I don’t want to talk about Granger any more than I already have. I figured hearing it from everyone else would be simpler than hearing it from me,” he shrugged. “She didn’t want me, and that’s fine. I’m over it. It’s done. And it’s time for all of us to move on.”

Blaise’s face looked as if his features were unable to decide whether they were amused or appalled. “Well. That’s good to hear, I guess. That you’re over Granger.”

Draco remained impassive. “It is.”

“You know Nott’s absolutely bloody furious with you.”

“I do, yes.”

“And that if it wasn’t extremely unlike him to take sides, he’d definitely be taking Hermione’s side right now.”

Draco grimaced in response.

“You know, Draco, you’re extremely lucky I don’t have opinions on other people’s personal conflicts, because if I did, you’d be really, massively fucked right now.

“You really have a lot of shit to say for someone without an opinion.”

Blaise shot him a brilliant smirk, straddling his broom. “It’s my best quality, mate.”

_____________________________________

**_Saturday, August 29, 3:12 PM: Hermione and Ginny’s Flat_ **

Harry was leaning back against the couch, Ginny’s head on his chest as she reclined between his legs.

“Should we go help her? I’m starting to think she might burn a hole into that dish with all that scrubbing,” he whispered, tracing circles down Ginny’s arms.

“No, she’ll only want to do it herself. You know how she gets when she’s upset.”

“Are you ever going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Absolutely the fuck not, Harry Potter.”

“Are you seriously leaving me to my own devices here? That’s cruel, Ginny.”

The witch almost cackled. “Are you seriously telling me that you, Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived-Twice, youngest Head Auror in British history, not only don’t know what’s going on but are incapable of figuring it out on your own?”

Harry pouted. “Fine, but don’t blame me if I end up pulling Malfoy and Hermione into an interrogation room to figure it out.”

_____________________________________

_**Saturday, August 29, 4:48 PM: Hermione and Ginny’s Flat** _

“Hermione? Hermione, are you there?”

Hermione jumped from her position on the couch, scaring Crookshanks out of her lap. She spun around frantically before noticing Theo’s head surrounded by green flames in the middle of the fireplace. “Theo? What the fuck are you doing in there? Come through, you idiot!”

Theo disappeared for a moment before the fireplace glowed green, a tall brunette man suddenly appearing in her drawing room.

“Hi, Hermione,” he said with a sad smile, drawing the woman into a gentle hug. “How are you?

Hermione shrugged, blinking rapidly. “I’m fine, really. Shocked, mostly, and a little angry, but I’m fine. Or at least, I will be.”

“I just wanted to check on you. I’m furious with him, you know that, right?”

Hermione sighed, plopping back onto the sofa. “I do know that, but I’m not sure I want you to be. I’m not exactly blameless, Theo.”

He sat down beside her. “Maybe not, but it doesn’t excuse what he did.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

They sat in silence for a moment before Hermione asked the question she was really worried about. “How’s Daphne?”

_____________________________________

_**Saturday, August 29, 6:51 PM: A Muggle Restaurant Somewhere In London** _

“For the thousandth time, she’s not mad at you. You literally haven’t done anything wrong, so would you just leave it there?”

“Tell me exactly what she said again. Word for word.”

“She said, and I quote, ‘It’s an impossible situation and I really can’t blame her.’ Satisfied?”

There was silence. Pansy sighed. “Daph, you and I both know that you’re not going to let this go until you talk to her directly. Are you going to go yourself, or are you going to make me drag you there?”

_____________________________________

**_Saturday, August 29, 7:02 PM: Oro by Zabini_ **

“Last night was lovely,” Astoria commented after an uncomfortable silence.

Draco would have scoffed if it wouldn’t force him to explain. “Indeed.”

“I’m surprised you hadn’t kept Hermione updated on our engagement,” she stated, the curiosity behind the question masked with an air of indifferent politeness. “I thought you two were close.”

Draco stiffened minutely, unnoticed by his fiancée. “Well, she’d been in France for a few weeks. Hard to keep her updated from that far away.”

She took a longer-than-polite sip of her wine. “No Floo connections in Paris?”

Draco’s grey eyes met her green ones intently. “She was busy, darling. Working on her new program and all. Nothing more to it than that.” He took her hand, smiling fondly.

She offered him a coy smile in return, seemingly placated by the brief explanation.

Draco, however, was rattled. How much did Astoria know, and how the fuck did she figure it out?

_____________________________________

_**Saturday, August 29, 8:19 PM: Hermione and Ginny’s Flat** _

“Pansy? What the fuck are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, Hermione, relax,” her friend called back. “I brought someone for you!”

Hermione’s heart pounded as she exited her room, terrified at the idea that Pansy may have acted even more rashly than usual and brought Draco directly to her door. One of two reasons why, when she saw a different blonde Slytherin – this one female – she gasped with relief. “Daphne!”

The blonde held out her arms in response, beckoning Hermione into a firm hug.

“I was so scared you’d hate me,” Daphne confessed.

“Me, furious with you? I was terrified you were furious with me! It’s your sister!”

Hermione pulled away and dragged Daphne towards the kitchen, pulling out three cups for tea.

“None for me, Granger,” Pansy said, trailing her friends into the kitchen with a small smile. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”


	7. The Daily Prophet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, guys, this chapter has a non-zero likelihood of being ~controversial~. PLEASE read the chapter notes at the end before you jump to conclusions!

_**Sunday, August 30, Hermione and Ginny's Flat**_

“Hermione! You have to get out of bed or mum will fucking kill you, you know that.”

“Unghphmphhhhhh,” Hermione refused, muffled by a pillow.

Ginny grabbed her foot and tugged it. Hermione rolled onto her stomach and hung on to the mattress. “I’m stronger than you and you know it, Hermione, don’t make me drag you off.”

“Mmph my kho,” she groaned.

Ginny released her foot and squinted. “What the fuck are you trying to say?”

“Ungh oot!”

The redhead rolled her eyes. “Don’t make me immobilize and levitate you.”

Hermione screamed into the pillow before rolling over onto her back once more. “I can’t go, Ginny, I can’t face him _and_ Narcissa _and_ Astoria. Not this soon.”

“Do you seriously think the man would show up today? After everything? And with _her_?”

“He showed up to dinner with her two days ago!”

“Dinner at Blaise’s flat is not the same as a Weasley brunch at the Burrow, Hermione.”

The brunette stared up at the ceiling. “Will Molly really be upset if I skip?”

“You know the rules, H, last Sunday of the month is mandatory. Upset, no. Disappointed, probably, but that’s honestly scarier” Ginny said, before being interrupted by a sharp tapping at Hermione’s window. Hermione made no move to answer the owl.

“Are you going to get that?” Ginny asked, raising an eyebrow.

Hermione groaned again and attempted to roll out of bed, gravely misjudging the distance between her body and the edge of the bed and ending up on the floor instead with a thud.

Ginny snorted, covering up the noise with a cough. Hermione shot her a glare before rushing over to the window, where the owl was tapping more and more impatiently with each passing moment.

“Sorry, darling,” Hermione murmured to the owl before placing a knut in the little pouch it carried.

The owl hooted indignantly.

“Sunday Prophet?” Ginny inquired.

The older witch nodded in response, unscrolling the paper leisurely as she returned to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I seriously don’t know why you still get those things. The weekday editions are bad enough, but the Sunday ones are practically all Skeeter, stupid society pa— Hermione? What’s wrong?”

Hermione had turned more and more grey with each passing moment, skimming word after word of the front page as though her life depended on it. She began flipping through the paper, reading faster than should be humanly possible, looking to Ginny like she had just realized this particular copy of the Sunday Prophet was Voldemort’s ninth horcrux.

Suffice it to say Ginny was concerned.

“Hermione, seriously, what’s wrong?”

Hermione handed Ginny the paper listlessly, lips pressed together thinly.

Ginny looked between her and the proffered object repeatedly before grabbing it out of her hands.

“No fucking way.”

“You’re in this.”

“Yes.”

“You’re in the paper.”

“Yes.”

“This is a public announcement that you’re one of Astoria’s bridesmaids.”

“I’m aware.”

“Merlin’s _fucking_ balls. How did Skeeter even find out about this? It’s been like a day!”

“Not the worst part. Keep reading.”

“Oh my— _Ron and Harry_? Did Draco even ask them?”

Hermione snorted. “Absolutely not. They would have told us. Purebloods playing the game as always, I assume.”

Ginny shook her head. “Malfoy does a lot of questionable things, but this isn’t his style.” She flopped into an armchair across from the bed. “Hermione, not that I’m, like, blaming you for—” she brandished the _Prophet_ “—this, but why the fuck did you agree to that in the first place?” 

Hermione fell back, spread-eagled across her bed. “I didn’t know what else to say! She cornered me at dinner in front of everyone when I was _drunk_ off my _arse_ and still reeling from the shock of it all. What was I supposed to do, say ‘oh, no, sorry, I’ve been fucking your fiancé for several months now, actually, and I’m just a bit in love with him, so I’m afraid I must decline?’ As fucking if!”

Ginny leaned forward. “Okay, I love you, but let’s not pretend here, H. She hardly cornered you. You very well could have said no if you wanted to. You’re the new head of a new department at work and busier than anyone I know. So why didn’t you?”

Honestly? Hermione didn’t have the answer to that question either. Why _did_ she agree? Ginny was right, she had more than enough reasons to say no. Time, fabricated trips to France, wanting to stay out of the public eye – she could have used any and all of those as a reason.

But she didn’t.

And now she was stuck.

She brushed off Ginny’s question, “Did you get to the bottom of thirteen?”

Ginny looked up quizzically before returning her attention to the paper, her eyes practically bugging out of her head when she finally caught it. “ _‘Sources say seeing the love between Malfoy and Greengrass has convinced Weasley and Granger to jump back into a romantic connection?!'”_

_____________________________________

_**Sunday, August 30, Draco's Penthouse Flat**_

“Draco fucking Malfoy, un-fucking-ward this door before I fucking blast it open, you fucking prat!”

Pansy Parkinson stood in the antechamber to the penthouse suite, wand in one hand and _Daily Prophet_ in the other.

“I’m fucking serious, Draco! Open the fucking door! I may not be an Auror, but I’m more than capable—”

The door swung open, revealing a sleep-tousled, shirtless blonde wizard. “Pansy, what the fuck?”

Pansy stormed through the door, searching left and right for an unknown… something. “Is Astoria here?” She demanded.

Draco followed her drowsily, rubbing at his tired eyes. “Why the fuck would Astoria be here?”

She turned to face him, incredulous. “Hm, I don’t know, Draco, why would she be? Because it’s a Sunday morning, you were out with her last night, and she’s your fiancée?”

The significance of the question hit Draco a bit slower than normal, he was ashamed to admit, and he reddened slightly. “I—no, she’s not here.”

Pansy squinted at him. “Holy fucking shit. You’re not sleeping with her.”

He crossed his arms and looked away, realizing just how royally fucked he was now that Pansy had figured it out.

She barked out a shocked laugh. “Mother of fucking Morgana, you aren’t sleeping with her. Your fiancée. But—”

Draco could practically feel the wheels turning as she continued.

“—it’s not because of her, Salazar knows Astoria’s been around the pitch, too. So it had to have been your decision. Circe’s left fucking tit. What the fuck, Draco? You’re the biggest man-whore I know.”

Draco put on his best my-father-will-hear-about-this sneer. “Fuck off, Pansy, what happened to your whole ‘I’ll never speak to you again unless it’s to curse the magic out of you’ thing? Couldn’t stay away from me for more than a day?” He smirked, trying to cover up his embarrassment.

Pansy visibly darkened. She thrust the previously-forgotten parchment towards him. “You’re losing your touch, Malfoy. Didn’t even ask me how I knew you were out with her last night. So much for being Potter’s second-in-command.”

Draco frowned, unrolling the crumpled parchment. A shadow of irritation crossed his face upon seeing the  `DEATH EATER* TO WED SACRED TWENTY-EIGHT PUREBLOOD HEIRESS` headline, his actual title – Deputy Head of the Auror Office – banished to a tiny, barely-readable asterisked caption under the photograph of Astoria on his arm, ring glinting in the evening light, obviously taken after dinner the night before.

“Page three, six through nine, twelve, and thirteen,” Pansy directed, her voice dangerously low.

“Is the entire bloody paper about us?”

“Well, there’s a sweet little titbit on page five about Daphne and Theo, a rumour about an alleged Potter-Weasley baby, and an announcement of a Ministry crackdown on illegally imported broomsticks. Plus a couple things at the end. So it’s not all about you. Not exactly.”

Draco – irritation at being directed by Pansy aside – followed her instructions and flipped through the paper, his eyes growing steelier and steelier with each additional page he read. Headlines shouted at him left and right:

`A TIMELINE OF THE MALFOY-GREENGRASS UNION`

`WHO IS ASTORIA GREENGRASS?`

`THE GREENGRASS FAMILY: PICTURES OF PERFECTION`

And then, across a two-page spread –

 **`DRACO MALFOY, A TWISTED AND TROUBLED LIFE`** , with four sub-headings:

`THE DARK HISTORY OF THE MALFOY FAMILY`

`WOULD-BE MURDERER? MALFOY’S ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE`

`MALFOY’S ASCENSION: MINISTRY WORKER OR DARK WIZARD?`

`THE MALFOY VAULTS: HOW WEALTHY IS ENGLAND’S WEALTHIEST PUREBLOOD HEIR?`

Salazar’s fucking balls.

But the worst part was the three giant photos of Hermione, Potter, and Weasley plastering the last page, accompanied by the most despicable of headlines.

`WAR HEROES AND WAR CRIMINALS: A CURIOUS WEDDING PARTY`

`THE GOLDEN QUARTET? MALFOY’S UNLIKELY FRIENDSHIP WITH WAR HEROES POTTER, GRANGER, AND WEASLEY`

Skeeter had saved the most obnoxious subheading of them all for last, accompanied by a half-decade-old photograph:

`RECONNECTED: NEWS OF MALFOY-GREENGRASS UNION REKINDLES WEASLEY-GRANGER ROMANCE?`

Draco looked up at Pansy, dumbfounded.

“I take it from your expression that you actually didn’t know all this was happening?” Pansy said wryly.

“They’re saying Potter and Weasel – bloody _Weasel_ – are my groomsmen. Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Don’t be too overdramatic, Draco, you know you would’ve ended up asking them anyway.”

“No, I fucking wouldn’t have! Astoria was fucking militant in demanding I include Tracey’s idiotic fiancé and one of his idiotic friends.”

“Now _that_ is interesting. Here I was thinking she was behind all this.”

“And this fucking idiotic thing about Granger and the Weasel getting back together—”

“Funny that that’s what you fixate on—”

“—shut up, Pansy, you know this is going to turn into an issue for them. For all of us! Fuck. Fuck!”

He was pacing up and down the room now, reading and rereading the worst parts. “Pans, this entire fucking paper is about us. About _me_. This is an unmitigated disaster.”

“Nice of Rita to bring back the whole Death Eater spiel. We were just getting comfortable.”

He stopped pacing. “Wait. Why aren’t you hexing me right now?”

“Why the fuck would I be hexing you? It’s clear you didn’t know anything about this. I’m angry, not irrational.”

He gestured vaguely, brushing off her statement. “No, no, after Friday. I was a fucking prat. Why aren’t you still pissed?”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “I _am_ still pissed, you git.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at her. “No, you’re not. You’re frustrated and upset, but you’re not on the verge of murdering me. You’re too calm. Too… jovial.”

She sighed heavily. “You know, you haven’t even offered me tea yet. Or apologized, for that matter.”

“You drink coffee in the mornings. And you’re evading.”

“Fine. I’m not fuming. You should be grateful.”

“I will be grateful once I figure out why.”

She inspected her nails carefully, checking for non-existent chips in the nude polish. “I talked to Daphne.”

“And she told you I really do care about Astoria?”

She waved off the question. “She talked to Theo.”

“I don’t follow.”

“ _Draco_ ,” Pansy said, leaning forward in her chair. “I _know_.”

The emotions that were on Draco’s face a moment prior – curiosity, confusion, a hint of amusement, relief – melted away in a heartbeat, replaced with a coldness not replicated since their Hogwarts days. “I see.”

“Look, I’m not here to make you talk about it. I just wanted you to know that I’m pissed as fuck, especially on behalf of Hermione, but she doesn’t want this to turn into another one of our feuds—”

Draco paled. “Hermione knows?” 

Pansy scoffed. “Absolutely not. If you wanted her to know, you would tell her. I won’t be the messenger, not with something like this.”

“Didn’t stop Daphne,” he muttered.

“Yes, well, Daphne has a good number of reasons why she doesn’t want us fighting. Anyway, I am upset, and you know that. For good reason. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re making the most ruinous, stupid decision of your life. But Hermione and Daphne conspired to convince me not to kill you, and when I saw the _Prophet_ – I just think you’ll need as many friends as you can get based on all… that. So that’s it. Oh, and you and Narcissa definitely shouldn’t go to the Burrow today unless you want to have more awkward interactions with Hermione. Now, I’m still pissed, so I’m leaving, but if you really need me, owl.”

She was gone before Draco could respond.

“Hurricane Pansy,” he muttered to himself, sinking into her newly-vacated chair.

 _‘Funny that that’s what you fixate on,’_ she had said. _‘The most ruinous decision of your life. Hermione doesn’t want this to turn into another one of our feuds. Conspired to convince me not to kill you. Hermione—“_

“Fuck this,” Draco murmured. _Hermione_ hadn’t wanted _him_ , not the other way around.

It’s not like he hadn’t tried. He _had_ tried. More than a man like him would every try to convince a woman to love him. He had all but dropped to his knees begging her to care for him in the way he cared for her.

And she hadn’t.

She had made that abundantly clear.

_____________________________________

**_Friday, February 14, Hermione's Ministry Office_**

“It’s Valentine’s Day, you know.”

Hermione smirked at him. “Feeling romantic, Malfoy?”

Draco’s heart skipped a beat. _If only you knew just how romantic I felt_.

“I think not, Granger, but I got you something anyway.”

He pulled out a thin, long velvet box and presented it to her.

“Your anti-Valentine’s-day presents get more ridiculous every year, Draco. Tell me you didn’t spend an exorbitant amount of money on this.”

 _The most expensive jewellery in the world wouldn’t be worthy of you, darling._ “Maybe, maybe not. You’ll never know.”

“You know, the whole point of a fuck-Valentine’s present is giving it to a platonic friend, and we’re not exactly platonic anymore, are we?”

 _If you knew just how non-platonic I felt…_ “Fuck off and open it, Granger,” he smirked.

Her fingers traced the box’s gold chain hesitantly. “This is—”

“—it’s really fine if you hate it. I’ll return it. Or you can—”

“Fuck off, you prat, I love it. It’s very much.. in line with my brand.” She looked up at him. “Put it on me?”

_I wish I was putting different jewellery on you, Hermione. Preferably on your ring finger._

_____________________________________

**_Tuesday, March 10, Barrafina_**

Hermione was furiously dodging Draco’s fork, which was edging closer and closer to her mouth each second, hissing expletives at the man all the while. Draco knew his cause was lost, but was doubled over in laughter, finding great amusement in watching his g—no, not his girlfriend, his _friend_ try and press herself further and further into the back of her chair as if it would open up and swallow her up – in the middle of a Muggle restaurant.

“No – no! Draco! No. Fuck you, I am not trying the lamb kidneys. No. No! You—stop it!”

“Darling,” Draco heaved between silent, near-painful laughs, “Just one bite! One bite. Just—”

“Draco Malfoy, so help me, I’ll—” she looked around suspiciously, checking for possible Muggle listeners – “I will sic the same flock of birds I set on Ron in 6th year on you if you don’t let up right this moment.”

Draco’s froze, fork suspended in mid-air. “You wouldn’t.”

Hermione gave him a coy smile. “I think you know I would.”

Draco pouted. “I’m just trying to expand your horizons, love.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open in shock, and Draco instantly knew he had made a mistake. “Draco, you know I’m trying to go pescatarian for the month! You can’t tempt me less than two weeks in! I mean, really, and you act li—”

Draco cut her off, swooping in with a mind-melting kiss. Pulling away, he smirked. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“I _hate_ you, Malfoy,” she proclaimed, before lunging across the table and kissing him back fiercely.

“Careful, Granger, or people will think this is a—” he leaned in conspiratorially, smirking again “—date.”

Hermione laughed, a beautiful, heart-warming sound. “Don’t be ridiculous, Malfoy, no one could ever accuse us of being on a date. Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”

The statement was a pang to his heart. It took all his newly-learned Gryffindor courage not to apparate out of the Muggle establishment and never see Hermione again out of sheer embarrassment.

Instead, he put on his most over-confident smirk-sneer. “You’re absolutely right, Granger. I’m far out of your league.”

_____________________________________

**_Tuesday, April 21, Lunch at The Leaky Cauldron_**

Hermione was staring on the brand new, gold Cartier ring on her finger – no, not _that_ finger, and not that type of ring – when she finally spoke again.

“You’ve been buying me a lot of gifts lately.”

He smirked. “Lately? I’m offended, Hermione.” _Is she finally getting the hint?_

She rolled her eyes. “More gifts than usual. And more expensive. You’ve got to stop.”

 _She is definitely not getting the hint_. “I see no reason why I should.”

“You shouldn’t be spending this much money on me, Draco.”

 _Fuck. Was it all too much? Deflect, Malfoy, deflect._ “I have to show you my appreciation for listening to my rants somehow, don’t I?”

She glared at him. “There are other ways to show aff—appreciation, Draco.”

Now he was well and truly puzzled. “Do you not like it? We can exchange—”

She shook her head. “No, you idiot, I love it. But you don’t need to spend thousands of Galleons on me to show me you value our friendship.”

_‘Friendship.’ Fuck._

Hermione had apparently misinterpreted his hesitation for confusion, continuing with her explanation. “I mean, I know you appreciate our friendship, so you really don’t need to do anything at all. I love our friendship too. But if you’re really intent on it, it doesn’t always have to be a gift. I feel guilty with you constantly buying me things.”

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. For such a brilliant woman, she was well and truly daft sometimes. Perhaps he really did need a change in strategy.

“Alright,” he began, “What are you doing Sunday?”

“Sunday?” Hermione frowned. “I’m going to the Burrow for dinner. Why?”

Draco knew she was going to the Burrow, of course. “Could I—would you want me to come with you?”

Hermione looked like she had just been hit with a confundus charm. “You—you want to come?”

He threw her his best panty-dropping smirk. “Of course I do, Hermione.”

Her mouth was wide open now, evaluating his statement for authenticity. “You know this isn’t a mandatory Sunday, right?”

Draco actually rolled his eyes this time. “Is it really so unlikely that I’d want to go somewhere you really love of my own volition?”

Hermione blinked at him owlishly. “I—no, of course not. I’m sorry. I just didn’t think you’d want to.”

“Well,” he looked at her earnestly, trying to funnel several years worth of emotion into one glance, “I do want to.”

_____________________________________

**_Tuesday, June 9, Draco's Bed_**

“I have to tell you something.”

It was cliché – the traditional post-coital-bad-news line – and Draco knew it, but he wasn’t exactly sure how else to pose it.

_My mother wants us to get married because she’s possibly on the verge of death, or maybe she isn’t, so anyway, want to get married even though we aren’t even technically dating?_

Definitely not.

Hermione turned onto her side, appraising him. “What’s wrong?”

His fingers rested on her side, stroking up and down her bare skin. “Nothing’s wrong, exactly. I had dinner with mother last night.”

Hermione smirked. “You have dinner with your mother every Monday night, Draco, that’s not exactly breaking news.”

“Last night was different.”

She frowned. “Different how? Is everything alright?”

Draco took a deep breath, steeling himself to propose-without-proposing to the witch he had spent over half a decade pining after. “So, you know it was my 24th birthday last Friday.”

“Obviously.”

“And, well, I was very strongly reminded that I’m now the youngest unmarried Malfoy and the youngest unmarried Black in either family’s history.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I’ll never understand why Wizarding folk demand that people marry so young. Tell me there isn’t some idiotic ‘lose-your-magic-and-your-money’ Malfoy marriage curse.”

Draco would have laughed if he weren’t so stressed. “No, thank Merlin for that. Or thank Brutus, rather, he did away with that when he was afraid my great-grandfather wouldn’t get married soon enough. But my mother was… insistent.”

“Insistent how?”

“Nothing binding, but her words were definitively harsher than normal. She wants me to get married. As soon as possible, although there’s no exact time frame.”

Hermione stiffened ever-so-slightly, and Draco felt it. “Right.”

Draco had hardly opened his mouth to respond when she continued on.

“So which pureblood heiress does she have in mind? I’ll be thrilled for you as long as it isn’t Evelyn Rowle. The woman’s a fucking menace.”

Draco froze. Was this her way of putting him off? Letting him know that wasn’t what she wanted? No, he had to be sure. He couldn’t throw this away just for—

“—although, that’s not entirely fair, Narcissa isn’t at all a blood supremacist anymore, so maybe—”

_Thank fucking Merlin, she’s finally getting it—_

“—that opens the possibilities to a number of half-blood witches, too, but I doubt Narcissa knows many muggleborns—”

_Other than you, you daft witch—_

“—Either way, Draco, whoever it is, I won’t be upset. I just—I just want you to be happy. No matter who that’s with.”

His heart sank.

_You. It could only be you._

“And I totally understand that this has to stop, no need to let me down easy or anything.”

_Wait. What?_

“If what has to stop?”

She looked uneasy, nervous even – _was that sadness in her eyes?_ “Well, this,” she gestured between their naked bodies. “I don’t want to get in between you and— well, between you and whoever it’ll be.”

Draco was panicking in earnest now, but the man wasn’t raised by the most conniving man on the planet for nothing. He put on his best smirk, edging his body closer to hers. “There’s no one yet, is there?”

She smiled slyly back at him before pushing him onto his back and pressing her lips to his, making him hers once more.

_____________________________________

**_Friday, June 12, Draco's Flat_**

“Mother has set up dinner with Zara Shafiq tomorrow.”

Hermione paused before responding, pouring a slightly excessive amount of olive oil into the salad dressing. “Oh?”

“I’m preparing myself for the worst.”

“She’s very pretty, I’ll give you that.”

Draco wanted to scream. _Don’t you see that the only woman I can see that way is you?_ “Pretty but dim,” he said, compromising with the voice in his head.

“Well, I hope it goes well.”

_Do you? Do you really? Tell me you don’t._

She spun around, a wicked smile working its way onto her face. “In the meantime, though, I think I have enough time to get you off before our idiot friends start showing up, yes?”

 _Who am I to say no to that?_ “I—”

Hermione’s mouth was on his before he could get out an affirmative response. “We only have—”

“We’ll be quick.”

“What if someone—”

Hermione pulled away fully, placing several inches between them. “I’m so sorry, we can stop if you don’t want—”

Draco moved forward swiftly, pressing her against the counter. “Fuck no, I definitely want,” he said against her neck.

“Stop talking,” she demanded, dropping to her knees.

_____________________________________

Ten minutes later, Hermione was draped against the arm of Draco’s couch, the man himself pounding into her from behind with reckless abandon.

She was moaning so loudly, neither she nor Draco heard the Floo flare to life.

“Salazar’s _fucking_ balls, what the actual _fuck_?!” Theo shouted, spinning away from the scene.

“Oh my god!” Hermione shrieked, pushing Draco out of her and onto the floor and ducking behind the couch, only her hair and eyes visible.

“Hermione?!” Daphne gasped, peeking through her fingers as if to confirm that the witch she had just seen impaled on Draco’s cock was, in fact, her Gryffindor friend.

“What the fuck, Theo?!” Draco exclaimed, pulling his pants up hastily from his position on the floor. “Hermione, I think you gave me a fucking concussion!”

“Will someone PLEASE tell me what the FUCK is going on here?” Theo thundered.

Before either of them could respond, the Floo came to life once more, forcing Hermione to apparate directly into Draco’s bedroom – summoning her clothes in the process, which Draco had not previously known was possible – and rushing Draco to his feet far sooner than his throbbing head would have liked.

 _I am so fucked,_ Draco thought.

_____________________________________

**_Saturday, June 13, Draco's Flat_**

Draco plopped into a chair and summoned a bottle of firewhiskey, ready to forget the worst date of his life.

Zara Shafiq was kind and thoughtful, amused by Draco’s jokes, bantered fairly well, albeit unaggressively, generally brilliant, and as beautifully well-dressed as they came, not a hair out of place.

In short, she was a fucking menace.

To be honest, there wasn’t anything specifically wrong with her. She was the type of woman Narcissa would love. 

But she wasn’t Hermione.

Draco was halfway through replaying the night in his head, comparing each and every one of Zara’s remarks to what Hermione might have said instead when he decided to owl her. It was only 9, after all. And it was normal to owl one’s friends after a date. Let them know how it went, and all that. Normal. Yes. He _should_ owl her.

_Hermione –_

_What a fucking night. Are you free?_

_xx D_

His owl had returned almost immediately, no note in hand. He had waited thirty minutes, confused by the silence, when an unfamiliar owl — was that Potter’s? – had finally tapped at his window, bearing a note with _her_ writing.

_Malfoy –_

_Sorry, can’t! Girls’ night with Ginny._

He frowned, reading and rereading the parchment over and over.

Girls’ night? No, that had definitely been Potter’s owl.

Why on earth was she lying to him?

_____________________________________

**_Sunday, June 14, Durand et Lambert Bijouterie_**

Draco had somehow managed to find himself at the family jeweller first thing in the morning, ready to placate a potentially irritated-and-dangerous Hermione.

In the end, he had settled on a brilliant, wizard-charmed diamond encrusted with emeralds, rubies, sapphires and yellow topaz, the smaller stones enchanted to appear and disappear depending on the wearer’s personality and mental state so the predominant house or houses would always shine through. A secret, jeweller-developed charm would allow the wearer to disillusion or publicize the house stones at will, making the necklace appear as either its true form or simply an extravagant jewel to anyone who saw it. The chain could be charmed to appear any metal colour – gold, silver, rose, white, bronze – so the necklace would match with anything and everything.

A personal, ever-changing Sorting Hat, if you will.

It was extravagant, in short, and would be costing Draco a third of his annual Auror salary to purchase. Not that money was an object for the Malfoys, of course.

He had given her gifts before, yes, so many he had lost count.

There was a gold chain she wore every day now, a matching bracelet she had received less than two weeks later. The Cartier ring – no, again not _that_ type of ring – that she never took off, a tailor-made green skirt that she adored. And those were just the tip of the iceberg.

But this? This was different.

This felt like a gift you gave your wife after shagging someone else. An apology after an action so heinous, so inexcusable, you just wanted to reduce the severity of her hexes, not even achieve her forgiveness, it was so out of reach.

No, Draco hadn’t shagged Zara, and no, Hermione was not his wife – not anything but his friend, technically.

But he felt slimy, dirty. Dirtier than he had ever felt.

It was not a feeling he was comfortable with.

_____________________________________

**_Saturday, July 4, Draco's Flat_**

‘ _A close friend of Miss Rosier says the two are on the path to wedded bliss soon enough.’_

A ‘close friend,’ Draco’s arse. Stella had given this interview herself, and he knew it.

Bloody _Witch Weekly_. He was going to burn their offices down.

His anger wasn’t about the interview itself, not really. Stella was a fucking menace, and he was a fool to have taken her out in the first place.

No, his anger was really just thinly veiled stress. Hermione would be over in less than half an hour, and Draco still had no idea what to tell her. _Yes, I took Stella out with the intent of possible propositioning her for marriage, but no, I swear that when I do proposition a woman for marriage, it won’t be her and you’ll be the first woman to know?_

Merlin, he was so fucked.

He was pacing up and down his bedroom when he heard the crack of apparition.

Fuck. She was early.

“Draco?” She called.

He was absolutely not ready. The talk would have to wait.

_____________________________________

“I saw _Witch Weekly_ ,” Hermione panted after a particularly vigorous round.

“Oh?” Draco breathed heavily, panic rising once more.

“I know better to believe what I read in the papers, but I’m honestly surprised you didn’t even tell me the two of you went out.”

To be honest, Draco had stopped telling her about any of his… propositions after dinner with Sophia Selwyn two dates ago.

It felt like telling his wife about his mistresses.

“There wasn’t much to tell,” he deflected, somehow even more out of breath than he was a minute ago. “It was awful. I left early. Pretended there was an office emergency. The article is all bullshit.”

“Hm,” she responded.

“Are you upset?”

“Why would I be upset?”

“You seem on edge.”

“I’m not on edge.”

Draco took a deep breath. “Look, Hermione, I think we should talk about this—this thing we have going on.”

He could see her freeze in place. “I wasn’t aware that we had a thing going on.”

 _Fuck._ “I just meant—”

“Look, Draco, you wanted me to come over, so I did. But it’s 6 now, and I’m meeting Pansy in a bit, so I’ve got to run if I’m going to have time to cover up your handiwork well enough for her not to catch it. Sorry.”

“Hermione, I—”

A sharp crack flooded his apartment once more.

She was gone.

_____________________________________

**_Wednesday, July 15, Malfoy Manor_**

“Draco! Look who just popped in for tea.”

There was a reason Draco stuck to dinners with his mother, and this was one of them.

Dinners were personal, private, familial. Any invitations were extended sparingly, to individuals who were family or family adjacent. His mother was particular about her time with her son, and even more particular about not making more work for their (paid, free) elves. Dinner was safe.

Teas, however, were none of those things. Tea was very much not safe.

But nothing could have prepared Draco for walking into his mother’s sitting room and seeing Evelyn fucking Rowle, of all people.

_‘I’ll be thrilled for you as long as it isn’t Evelyn Rowle. The woman’s a fucking menace.’_

Draco felt like he was breaching the last remnants of his trust with Hermione.

It was bad enough that he had had dinner with Astoria that Saturday, taken her to Barrafina – _Hermione’s_ restaurant – on his mother’s unknowing recommendation, and, worst of all, not hated it.

But Evelyn Rowle – that was the last fucking straw.

Draco was done. He was well and truly done.

_____________________________________

Evelyn Rowle had hardly exited the room – a full 90 minutes later, mind you – when Draco spoke again.

“Look, mother, I appreciate your efforts. I do.”

Narcissa raised a sculpted eyebrow at her son. “But?”

“I can’t do this anymore. I need to—I need to sort out a few things. I need to figure out what the fuck is going on with my life, and if it’s not what I think, I’ll meet whoever else you want me to meet. But this was the last straw. I fucking—”

“Language, Draco.”

“I hate Evelyn Rowle, always have and always will, and this disaster of an evening just made me realize how I’m not willing to spend my life with someone I don’t care about whatsoever. Just—just give me a few weeks, and we can revisit this whole thing. Is that alright?”

Narcissa gave her son a knowing, reassuring smile. “Of course, my darling. I just want you to be happy. Take all the time you need, and we’ll talk about it when you’re ready.”

_____________________________________

**_Friday, July 31, Draco's Flat_**

Draco was staring at himself in the mirror, trying over and over to charm his hair properly. He was distracted, and the magic showed it.

Five years of friendship, and Draco still found himself occasionally stumped at the idea that he was close enough to the Chosen One himself to be invited to the man’s birthday parties, let alone Neville Longbottom’s.

More importantly, though, two full weeks had passed since his disastrous encounter with Evelyn and his confession to Narcissa, but he still hadn’t found the words to tell Hermione exactly how he felt. He had worked up the courage fairly recently, determining that a lifetime of heartbreak would be much better fared if he was certain he knew how she felt than if he remained ignorant of her precise emotions, but the time, the ambiance, the phrasing – all those had still eluded him.

Tonight, though – tonight was the night. He would have no more than two drinks, just enough to fuel his courage but not so many that he lost his ability to articulate properly. He would do the rounds, making her aware of his presence without distracting her too much to enjoy Longbottom and Potter’s birthday. And then, around 11, he would whisk her away to his flat, confess his love for her, and, ideally, take her to bed.

He cast the charm one more time, his hair falling into place – not too perfectly, he had left the slicked-back look at Hogwarts – and apparated away.

It was a fool proof plan.

_____________________________________

The plan may have been fool proof, but it was most certainly not Drunk Draco Malfoy proof.

He didn’t remember much of the night before.

He remember having some sort of a drinking contest with Potter and a semi-duel with Weasley. Ernie Macmillan, of all people, had shown up halfway through the night and had immediately started flirting aggressively with Hermione – clearly intending to achieve a repeat of their painfully, mind-numbingly bad one-night-stand (Hermione’s words, not his) from the December before.

Draco was not happy about this turn of events.

His last memories were Flooing home with an almost-equally-drunk Hermione, his hands wandering across her body, and murmuring _“We’ll talk in the morning,”_ before falling asleep.

It had never been an issue before. Hermione never left before Draco woke up. Not once.

But it was morning now, and she was gone.

_____________________________________

**_Friday, August 7, Number 12 Grimmauld Place_**

Draco was about to walk into the kitchen of Harry's home when he heard her voice.

“Ron, would you kindly shut the fuck up?”

“I’m just saying! It _looks_ like there really is something there, and I just wanted you to know that you have my blessing.”

Draco could practically see the look of outrage on Hermione’s face.

“Not that you need my permission, obviously!” Ron added hastily, panic seeping into his tone. “I’m just saying. If you were worried I’d have an issue with it. I won’t. He’s annoying as shit, but he’s not a bad bloke. Don’t take that as encouragement, though.”

He could feel Hermione thinking from outside the kitchen.

“I—thank you, Ron, that’s honestly quite sweet. But we’re just friends. That’s quite clear to both of us. Nothing more to it.”

“It just seems like—”

“Oh, come on, Ron, as though Draco Malfoy and I could ever actually work. It’s a morbidly hilarious thought, and if you value your bodily safety, I highly recommend you never bring this topic up again.”

“It is sort of funny, but I wasn’t going to say that to you,” Ron said, snorting.

Draco had heard enough.

_____________________________________

**_Saturday, August 8, Hermione's Flat_**

Draco Malfoy was in bed, wrapped around a beautiful witch, and he was utterly panicking.

"I'm going to go get ready," she said with a smile, bouncing out of bed. He watched her bare hips swaying as she retreated from him, entranced for a moment before the reality of his situation called back to him. 

_Last chance_ , he thought to himself. _You have to tell her. Be direct. She taught you how to do that. You’re fully capable of pulling it together, you buffoon. Time for action. No alcohol, no gestures, just words._

He rolled out of bed and into the bathroom, where Hermione was pulling on a bathrobe and investigating her appearance in the mirror.

“God, I hate my hair in the mornings. I feel like I’m thirteen all over again, all bushy hair and buck-teeth,” Hermione ranted, fidgeting with her curls. “I don’t know how you can look at me like this – no, Draco, I’m serious, stop laughing!”

“No, Granger, I’m not laughing, I’m merely chuckling at the idea that you’re anything less than breath-taking.” The blonde responded.

“Breath-taking because I’ll end up suffocating you with my hair in your sleep,” Hermione grumbled. “And you! With your perfectly coiffed hair all the bloody time! It’s not fair!”

Coming up behind her, he wrapped his arms around her waist, sweeping her hair aside and pressing kisses to the side of her neck. “I’ll rumple my hair for you, love, if it makes you feel better.”

She froze at that particular term of endearment, meeting his stare in the mirror. A small smile crept across his face.

_This was it. This was the moment. You have to do it._

“Hermione,” he had said, never breaking eye contact with her reflection. “I—”

“Oh look!” Hermione interjected. “Look at the time. 8:24! My Portkey’s set to leave soon—”

 _Does she not know where I’m going with this?_ Draco frowned. “—Hermione, it’s not set to leave for another 36 minutes. Would you—”

“Yes, Draco, but I’ve still got to feed Crookshanks and make breakfast and eat breakfast and all sorts of last-minute things,” she hurried, extricating herself from his arms. He grabbed her wrist. _Please don’t go._

“Hermione, you don’t eat breakfast. Ever. Not for the five years we’ve been friends. What are you on about?” _Please don’t let this be the rejection I think this is._

To no avail, she tried to tug her hand out of his firm grasp. “Well, it’s just a very important trip, and you really should eat before portkey travel, and Ginny could come back any moment and god knows how awkward that would be—”

_She’s ashamed of me. After all this time._

Draco’s face hardened. Her hand felt like fire in his. He dropped it immediately, placing distance between their bodies. “Ah. I see. Right, wouldn’t want any of our friends to find out. Well, I’ll just be going, then. Wouldn’t want to be in your way. Busy day and all. I’ll see you at the end of the month.”

Hermione frowned. “Draco, wait, I didn’t mean it like—”

The snap of apparition sounded before she could finish her sentence.

_I fucking knew someone like her would never want someone like me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! There you have it! This is a lot of Draco's perspective on their history, but not all of it -- more to come, eventually. Please remember that this is JUST from Draco's POV right now. NONE of the memories this chapter include Hermione's feelings or rationale. There is so much more to all of this than just what Draco saw, so don't be too quick to hate Hermione yet. I've said it in the comments, but we should all keep in mind that this is the very definition of an idiots in love story, emphasis on idiots. They are both fools. That context is important! 
> 
> Please review if you have a moment! I love getting feedback especially since this is my first fic :) trying to improve my writing as we go!


	8. The Brunches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter this week! I hope everyone had a good Monday. I've decided that I will definitely post every Sunday, but I'll also try and do an extra chapter sometime during the week, depending on whether or not I have the time.
> 
> Some more characters pop up in this one, but they'll be more fleshed out as time goes on. Hope you like it! As always, I love a good (or bad) review.

**_Sunday, August 30, The Burrow_ **

Molly Weasley had always wanted a semi-large family. Three, maybe four children; maybe a dog and an owl, if they really wanted to expand.

She certainly did not expect to be 54 years old with a family of 23.

They weren’t all blood, of course, but blood had never made a family in Molly’s eyes. Her adoptive streak had started with Harry and Hermione, thirteen years ago, and she hadn’t stopped since.

Honestly, the pseudo-adoptions weren’t the strange part. Anyone who knew Molly Weasley née Prewett knew she would mother any poor creature in sight, even as a young girl. The strange part was the people she had somehow managed to adopt.

People who, ten years ago, might have screamed obscenities in her face till their throats were hoarse.

Really, it had all started with Andromeda Tonks. Molly and Andi had become somewhat of an unstoppable duo after the war, spending hours and hours drinking tea and gossiping together, playing with Teddy and, more recently, Victoire and Dominique.

And then Narcissa Black Malfoy was released from house arrest.

When Andromeda had shown up at the Burrow with her long-lost didn’t-take-the-mark-but-practically-a-Death-Eater sister five and a half years ago – the same one whose house Hermione had been tortured in – Molly was prepared to check her friend for the Imperius curse. Yes, her youngest children had apparently forgiven the Malfoy boy, and yes, Hermione seemed to be doing a bit too much forgiving, in her opinion, but a teenage boy was not exactly in the same category for forgiveness as a 45-year-old woman. Not even close.

She was shocked, then, when Narcissa’s first words to her were not something along the lines of “filthy, disgusting, impoverished blood traitor,” but more like “You have my sincerest apologies for everything I, my husband, and my son have ever done to you, said to you, or said about you, and while I will never be deserving of your acceptance, I will try my very best to be worthy of it.”

Molly’s motherly heart had melted in a matter of hours.

The rest was just a slippery slope.

She had first overhead Harry and Ginny whispering about Pansy’s mother’s death, the poor girl now an orphan at the age of twenty.

Next had come Theo, once Molly had seen Draco and Hermione muttering together in a corner of the room: _“The man murdered his mother in front of him, Hermione, we can’t expect Theo to process normally even if he was technically his father.”_

Pansy had inadvertently mentioned Blaise once, remarking to George how much the boy would love having a parent like Molly, one he could actually speak to about his culinary endeavours rather than a silent procession of house-elves.

And on top of all that, of course, there were the significant others, the spouses, the grandchildren, Molly’s house regularly filled to the brim as a result. She really wouldn’t have it any other way.

There were membership dues, of course. The first unspoken requirement of Weasley Family Membership was mandatory attendance at a monthly Burrow Brunch, generally the last Sunday of the month. The second was undying commitment to Weasley Family loyalty.

After all, once you were a part of the family, you were expected to act like it lest you risk Molly’s wrath.

Which is why, the morning of August 30, Molly found herself absolutely furious upon relieving a rather sweet-but-puny snowy owl of a rolled up _Daily Prophet, Sunday Edition_ , unravelling the parchment to reveal a striking photograph of a tall, pointy blonde man Hermione was most certainly in love with, no matter how fervently she denied it, with a statuesque, green-eyed witch resting her ring-adorned hand on the man’s arm, gazing up into his eyes.

You see, Molly Weasley was an incredibly observant woman. Parenting seven small children, including two of the most trouble-making boys you could find, makes a mother’s eyes and ears sharper than should be humanly possible. The slightest twitch, the tiniest sound – Molly saw it all.

She had most certainly observed the way Draco Malfoy had been trailing Hermione to the Burrow every other week for the past several months, the way they looked at each other like lost puppies when they thought no one was looking.

And she had undoubtedly recognized the subtle shift in the way they debated nowadays, eyes filled with passion for each other instead of passion for the topic.

Hermione could pretend they were ‘just friends’ all she wanted, but Molly knew better.

Given all of that unfortunate knowledge, it was genuinely remarkable that Molly hadn’t accidentally set the paper on fire yet.

Narcissa Malfoy would be receiving a Howler.

______________________________________

**_Sunday, August 30, 10AM, Hermione and Ginny's Flat_ **

_Ginny looked up quizzically before returning her attention to the paper, her eyes practically bugging out of her head when she finally caught it. “‘Sources say seeing the love between Malfoy and Greengrass has convinced Weasley and Granger to jump back into a romantic connection?!”_

Hermione snorted. “Bit ironic, isn’t it?”

Ginny looked back at the parchment and practically guffawed. “This is fucking hilarious, honestly.”

“It would be if it didn’t mean reporters will be following us everywhere we go for the next several weeks,” Hermione commented wryly.

Ginny grimaced. “Fuck, I didn’t even think of that.”

“Sometimes I fucking hate myself for forcing Rita to turn herself in as an animagus eighth year. I could really use some blackmail material right about now.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Slytherins,” Ginny quipped, before realizing the significance of her statement. Hermione’s face fell, and she crawled up under the covers once more. “Fuck, Hermione, I didn’t mean in that way. Shit. I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s not your fault. It’s just going to take me some time.”

Ginny cursed herself internally, wracking her brain for an idea to fix this. “Do you want—”

“Honestly, Gin, just give me like 15 minutes to mope. I’ll be out before its time to leave, I promise.”

The ginger nodded reluctantly, leaving the _Prophet_ at the foot of the bed before she left.

Hermione sat up as soon as she heard the door close, reaching for the paper and flipping back to the front page. She traced her fingers across the sharp angles of Draco’s face, lingering on his lips. Astoria was speaking to him in the photo, clinging to his arm. She watched as he turned to her and smiled, placing his other hand on hers over and over again.

For a while, she had thought she knew Draco didn’t want her in the way she wanted him. She had been so sure their little arrangement was as much as she would ever get from him, she settled for it over and over again, willing to have a fragment of what she truly wanted rather than nothing at all.

The morning she had left three weeks ago, though, he had given her a sliver of hope. Yes, she had practically run him out of her flat afterwards, but the hope had taken root in her heart, giving her the courage she needed to make it through three weeks away from him and the reassurance she required to make her decision to tell him.

But this disaster of a weekend had stomped on all of that, confirming her earliest thoughts and fears. The genuine fondness with which he looked at Astoria – it was the fucking cherry on top.

Turns out eight months of shagging really didn’t mean anything to a man like Draco Malfoy.

Despite all of that, she missed him. She missed shagging him, obviously, the man really did live up to the Slytherin Sex God moniker, but it was more than that. She missed his presence. They hadn’t had a real conversation since before she left, and with the way things were looking at the moment, it was possible they’d never have a real conversation again.

She missed her best friend.

______________________________________

**_Sunday, August 30, 10AM, The Burrow_ **

Molly Weasley was getting her anger out by vigorously whisking her third batch of hollandaise, the first two tries ruined after she had added too much lemon juice to the first and put sugar, not salt, in the second.

“Molly?”

“In the kitchen, Arthur!”

Her dear, unsuspecting husband traipsed into the house, not realizing the scene he would be walking into.

“I did as much as I could, but I think we’ll have to enlist the children to finish degnoming—Molly, dear, are you quite alright?”

Molly harrumphed incredulously.

“It’s just that the knives are a bit more energetic than normal, don’t you think?”

Molly spun around from the stove, eyes widening upon noticing the rapid-fire dicing of tomatoes rather than the intended slicing she thought she had charmed the knives to perform. “Oh!” She gasped in frustration, pulling her wand to put a stop to the dicing but not noticing as the hollandaise began to cook in the process.

“Molly—”

“Oh, blast it all!” Molly exclaimed, charming every kitchen instrument to stop immediately.

Arthur was just a smidge concerned by his mental list of possibilities for his wife being in such a tizzy. “Might I help, dear?”

She sniffed delicately, dropping tiredly onto a kitchen stool. “Unless you can knock some sense into that Malfoy boy, no!”

Arthur frowned. It had been a long time since Molly had referred to Draco – a good friend to all her children, and the man responsible for saving Harry’s life on more than one occasion – in that way. He knew better, however, than to question his wife when she was like this. “I’d be happy to, if I knew what all this was about.”

She sniffed again, more loudly this time, and summoned the _Prophet_ , practically shoving it into his hands. “Look at this, Arthur!”

Arthur was, indeed, looking, and he was confused.

“How could he do this? To Hermione, of all people, a girl who risked so much to bring him _and his mother_ back into society?”

If Arthur had known this was the present state of things, he would have stayed out of the kitchen longer.

“And to think we welcomed him in! With open arms! And what does he do? He breaks her heart!”

“Now, Molly, don’t you think that’s a bit—”

“Don’t you take that tone with me, Arthur! You can’t deny the way he looks at her? The way he’s led her on?”

Arthur had not, in fact, noticed. This was not the time to tell her that.

“It’s just her luck that everyone will be here soon. If it were up to me, Narcissa would be receiving a strongly worded letter right about now!”

Arthur walked around the table and placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders, massaging away the tension. He dropped a kiss to her head and felt her ease under his touch. “Darling, we’ve talked about this. They’re all adults now. We can’t go poking our heads into their affairs, now can we?”

Molly spun around to face him. “Hardly adults, Arthur, they’re only 24!”

“Perhaps, but they are their own people, whether we like it or not. We’ve got to let them make their own mistakes, don’t you think?” He pressed down firmly into a knot in her neck, knowing the touch against her bare skin never failed to relax her.

“To what end, Arthur? Watch him throw away his life over some—some _woman_?”

Arthur almost chuckled at the amount of venom she had managed to inject into that perfectly objective descriptor. “It’s his life to throw away, dear.”

Molly huffed a noise of discontent in response.

“At some point, we’ve got to remember that they’ve been raised well and trust in the people they are today. And I know you don’t need me to tell you that Hermione is more than capable of looking after herself, don’t you agree?”

Molly was silent, which Arthur chose to take as a sign of encouragement. “Now, about that hollandaise.”

______________________________________

**_Sunday, August 30, 11:30AM, The Burrow_ **

Hermione watched as Harry placed a giggling Teddy Lupin on a broom, an anxious Andromeda and grinning Ginny watching off to the side. Hermione smiled as she watched the scene unfold, feeling almost peaceful for the first time in two days.

Theo and Daphne hadn’t come to brunch that morning, sending their excuses via Pansy and Blaise. The remaining Slytherins had stumbled over the couple’s excuses, trying not to call attention to the fact that Narcissa and Draco, too, were missing – ostensibly replacing brunch at the Burrow with brunch at Greengrass Manor. Hermione appreciated their consideration, she really did, but it hadn’t done much to ease the twinge in her heart when she realized _he_ would be with Astoria just about now.

To be honest, she wasn’t sure whether the pain of missing him was worse than the pain of seeing him.

Brunch had gone relatively smoothly nonetheless, no one daring to mention the news from that morning’s paper. Ginny had managed to catch and warn off Harry and George, Hermione had quickly realized, but she exchanged a wordless nod with Ron – who had arrived late – that had confirmed their shared intent to discuss the paper later, in private. Molly had shot her the occasional perceptive glance, of course, and had pulled her aside just before they sat down to eat ‘just to make sure you’re keeping well, dear,’ but for the most part, she had been able to put aside Draco’s situation and his absence.

Until Percy fucking Weasley had chosen to open his bootlicking mouth.

_____________________________________

**_Forty-Five Minutes Earlier_ **

“This morning’s _Prophet_ was interesting, wasn’t it?” He had started.

Molly shot him a short glare. “Now, Percy, that’s hardly pleasant conversation for a nice Sunday morning. Blaise, dear, how is the restaurant doing?”

“Well, it’s just quite interesting, isn’t it?” Percy continued before Blaise could reply. “I had no idea Malfoy was getting married. And so interesting that the three of you will be in the wedding. Didn’t realize you lot were so close. Are we sure he’s not using you?”

Percy had not been kind to Draco, nor to any of the Slytherins that graced the Weasley table every few weeks. After a particularly nasty scolding from Molly and more than a few hexes from Ginny, he had finally managed to keep his mouth shut, offering his excuses to leave early any time they were present rather than interact with them for longer than necessary. In Hermione’s opinion, his absence was not a loss.

Now, she stiffened, restraining herself from provoking a full-blown fight in the middle of their meal. Ginny, however, had never been able to control herself from responding to Percy’s remarks, and this time would be no different.

“They’re his friends, Percy, ever heard of the term? Probably not, given you’ve never had a single friend in your sad life. I’d refrain from commenting on things you don’t know anything about, if I were you.”

Molly sighed sadly, having realized long ago that she might be able to get her children in the same room, but it was practically impossible to get them on the same page. It was far better to allow them to simply hex it out on their own. “Arthur, Andromeda, will you help me get dessert?”

Percy raised his eyebrows at Ginny imperiously, ignoring his parents’ exit. “Well, on the bright side, at least we’ve got this whole business sorted out for Ron and Hermione.”

Parvati’s head snapped up upon hearing that.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Ron demanded, taking Parvati’s hand protectively.

Percy delicately patted his mouth with a napkin, turning his attention to his youngest brother. “Well, don’t you think this whole charade has gone on long enough? Time apart, and all that? I, for one, am glad to see that the two of you are back together, even if you’re pretending you aren’t at present.”

Ron laughed a sharp, harsh sound. “Hermione and I are most certainly not together. I’m extremely committed to Parvati, as you all know.”

Percy sniffed condescendingly. “Well, that’s a pity. I had hoped Skeeter had gotten it right, You’d be much better off with someone of Hermione’s stature in society. Would certainly garner you a lot more respect, don’t you think? No offense meant to you, Parvati. You might even be able to persuade Kingsley to let you back in as an Auror. Of course, I’m sure the-boy-who-lived-twice would be happy to help you with that, wouldn’t you, Harry?”

Harry’s mouth dropped open in shock.

Parvati was squeezing Ron’s hand so hard she was cutting off circulation, while he turned redder and redder each moment.

Percy, however, continued.

“And Hermione, you’re certainly not doing yourself any favours with your perpetual state of singledom. People will start to wonder if there’s something wrong with you. Not exactly attractive, is it? Being alone for so long? Might as well bite the bullet and accept what we all always knew would happen.”

If anyone had managed to maintain their cool after Percy’s first comment, they had lost it now. Forks clattered against plates, half of the table gaping at the man, ready to intervene but stumped by the question of where the _fuck_ Percy Weasley had obtained the audacity.

Blaise and Pansy exchanged a silent, subtle smirk. Percy Weasley had just dug his own grave.

If a skilled Legilimens had managed to infiltrate the Burrow at that very moment, they would have a veritable carte du jour of reactions, worthy of a Muggle soap opera.

Hermione picked up her mug calmly and took a sip of coffee, staring down at the brown liquid before snapping her eyes back to her least-favourite Weasley. Percy made eye contact with her, cocking his head in challenge. “Well? If you’re going to be in a Death Eater’s wedding, you might as well get something out of it, don’t you think?”

Fleur let out a short gasp as Pansy and Blaise went pale, staring down at their laps. Bill sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re out of line, Perce.”

Percy huffed. “Well, I’m not wrong, am I?”

“He was acquitted,” Harry gritted out.

Percy scoffed. “But that was all thanks to Hermione, wasn’t it? What with her inexplicable desire to save and reform murderers—”

“Enough!” Hermione screeched, jumping to her feet, Ron slowly following. “Enough. You have no fucking right, and if you know what’s best for you, I’d advise you not to speak of me, of Draco, or of Ron’s relationship status ever again. How dare you?”

“Are you threatening a Ministry official, Hermione?”

Ginny shot out of her seat, wand in hand. “Oh, fuck OFF, Percy, or have you forgotten that Hermione’s the war hero here, not you?”

Percy rose, too, throwing his napkin onto the table. “War heroine or not, sad that she still takes the time to defend Death Eaters. It’s a shame, really.” He turned to Hermione. “You’d be far more successful if you stopped advocating for lost causes,” he spat. “Take my advice, and maybe you’ll do a bit better than middle-management for a useless two-person department.”

Hermione saw red. She pulled her wand, ready to hex Percy into the last century where he belonged, when George stood, laughing unkindly. “That’s a bit rich, don’t you think, Percy, coming from the man who was nothing but a pathetic lackey for the Death-Eater-controlled Ministry?”

Percy sputtered. “I’ll have you know—”

Molly, Andromeda, and Arthur took that moment to reappear in the dining room, each carrying a different dessert. Molly took a moment to survey the scene, eyes widening as she noticed the disappearance of her grandchildren (moved outside by Bill moments prior), Pansy and Blaise’s ashen faces, and the wands in half of the children’s hands. “What on earth is going on in here?”

Percy scoffed cruelly, grabbing Audrey’s hand and pulling the woman – who, to her credit, did appear genuinely embarrassed by her husband – to her feet. “Nothing, mother, we’re leaving. But I advise you to keep these miscreants in line. They might find themselves in custody for threatening a Ministry official.” He stormed out of the room, leaving his enraged family behind.

Molly stared at the doorway through which Percy and Audrey had disappeared, then blinked at the remaining individuals at the table. She set the berry crumble on the table and placed her hands on her hips.

Sensing possible danger, Ron attempted an explanation. “Mum, I swear, it—”

Molly held up both hands. “Don’t worry about it, dear. I don’t want to know.” She looked around, searching. “Now, will someone go and get Bill and the children?”

______________________________________

**_Sunday, August 30, 11:30AM, The Burrow_ **

Ron meandered over to Hermione with two cups of tea, no Parvati in sight. Hermione sighed and straightened herself, prepared to fully engage her conflict-resolution skills. He offered her the tea and a weak smile before coming to stand at her side, watching Teddy with her.

“Is Parvati alright?” Hermione asked. “I’m sure that wasn’t very fun for her, either.”

Ron shrugged. “She’s fine. She knows Percy’s a dick.”

“I just don’t want her to think there’s anything true in all of that. You made that clear, right?”

He chuckled. “Hermione, anyone who’s been in a room with us anytime in the last five years knows there isn’t a single non-platonic feeling between the two of us. We were a fucking disaster together, and everyone knows we’d rather die than relive it."

She smiled. “I know, but it doesn’t make it any easier. Can’t be fun for the papers to be saying her partner’s actually in love with someone else.” She shot him a sharp look. “You know that better than anyone.”

Ron grimaced. “I do know that. I think as long as it ends with the one article, we’ll be okay. The real question, honestly, is how are you?”

“I’m fine,” Hermione responded, a bit too quickly.

“Are you seriously going to pretend I don’t know what I know?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she lied.

He rolled his eyes. “Do you want me to spell it out?”

Hermione cast a quick muffliato. “There’s nothing to spell out.”

“Alright, well, humour me. At Harry and Neville’s birthday thing, George and I hear Ginny interrogating you about whether or not Malfoy’s been staring at you all night. You say no, he hasn’t, and she says you’re too defensive. In response, you get even more defensive, and she accuses you of being in love with him. Then you’re all over him all night, the two of you leave together, both totally smashed – which, thankfully for you, no one but me noticed – and suddenly, things are awkward as fuck the next week. I confront you about it at dinner before you left, and you vehemently deny that anything’s going on between you but fucking lose your shit when Malfoy comes in, obviously worried that he overheard what was honestly a perfectly innocent conversation – **_if_** you were actually just friends, that is. You leave for three weeks and suddenly he’s engaged. You very obviously hate Astoria even though she seems perfectly nice, and all the Slytherins are so fucking tense you could cut the tension with a knife. Ginny’s obviously holding back her Weasley Rage, then she ‘spills wine on Harry,’ drags you out, and everyone’s obviously upset. And now we’re here, and apparently both of us are in his wedding party even though he hasn’t even fucking asked us. Does that about sum it up?”

“To be clear, Astoria asked me, and I agreed.”

“Semantics.”

“I didn’t know you knew what semantics meant.”

“You’re deflecting, Hermione.”

Hermione cursed under her breath. “I hate the way Parvati’s managed to turn you into a legitimately observant person.”

Ron gasped with mock affront. “Oi! I’ll have you know I’m perfectly capable of being observant all on my own.” Then, his face softening, he said, “Look, Hermione, all I know is the way you two look at each other is just like the way Harry and Ginny look at each other, or Bill and Fleur, or me and Parvati. There’s something there, whether either of you wants to admit it or not. And for what it’s worth, I’m fairly sure you have feelings for him, and I think its worth telling him before he permanently binds himself to someone else.”

“It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?”

Ron smiled sadly, reassuringly. “Late, yes, but that doesn’t make it impossible.”

Hermione inhaled deeply, sipping her tea. She stared out onto the lawn, where Harry was coaxing Teddy back down, arms wrapped around Ginny. “Look, I just don’t want to talk about it. Not yet. But it really does mean a lot that you’re here for me like that.”

Ron smiled and squeezed her shoulder. “Anytime, Hermione.”

He left to find Parvati, and Hermione was left standing at the back door, feeling sick to her stomach and worse than she had felt all weekend.

She was absolutely not prepared to see Draco Malfoy at work tomorrow.

______________________________________

**_Sunday, August 30, 9:15AM, Malfoy Manor_ **

“Mother!” Draco shouted, storming into the Manor. “Mum!”

It was a futile effort, really. The Manor was so large that Draco could have been screaming for his life and no one but the portraits would have heard.

Er—perhaps that wasn’t the best example, in retrospect.

It had all been redone after the war, of course. With Lucius in Azkaban and Narcissa locked down on house arrest, not allowed any contact with anyone but some rather hostile Aurors (including her own son), she really didn’t have much to do other than fantasize about the day she’d be able to raze this place to the ground, hand-in-hand with her son and her husband.

They had done it, eventually, the August after their sentences ended. A group of Aurors – including Harry Potter himself – had screened the house for Dark Magic that might interfere with the demolition, erecting a three-layer shield around the perimeter to prevent the fire from getting out of hand. They had stood there, together once more, and watched the place turn to ash.

Hermione Granger had single-handedly destroyed the drawing room.

But that is a story for another day.

So, there was nothing left of the old Malfoy Manor but a rose garden, one that Narcissa couldn’t bear to part with. Where the old house was dark, gloomy, insidious, the new was bright, airy, clean. The fresh start was more than Narcissa had ever hoped for.

The renovations, however, did not make it any more likely that Draco’s whining in the entrance hall would be heard by his mother on the second floor.

“Blast it all,” Draco muttered to himself. “Winky!”

The house elf appeared with a pop, dressed in a bright pink tutu with a lime green leotard and neon orange shoes. “Do you need something, Mr. Draco?” She asked squeakily.

Draco blinked, momentarily blinded by the brightness of the elf’s ensemble. “Just Draco, Winky, no ‘Mister’ necessarily. But yes. Could you find my mother for me, please?”

“Absolutely, sir. Would you like me to bring her to you?”

“That would be lovely. I’ll be in the small sitting room.”

Narcissa Malfoy entered several minutes later, blonde hair swept into a loose chignon, her sky-blue robes (Parkinson-Greengrass Designs, Late-Summer Collection) billowing behind her. “Draco, darling, I was under the impression that we’d be meeting at 10. Is everything alright?”

Draco allowed himself a small smile. Even around her son, his mother would never be caught dead with a single hair out of place. He stood, pressing a kiss to each cheek. “Hello, mother. You look lovely.”

“Oh, thank you, darling. Miss Parkinson and the elder Miss Greengrass have been putting me in some new designs. Now, are you going to tell me why you’re early, or shall I assume all my clocks have been set back by 45 minutes?”

He grimaced. “I take it you haven’t had a chance to review the Prophet this morning.”

She raised her eyebrows minutely in a silent inquiry. Draco handed her his copy of the paper. “It’s a fucking d—sorry, an absolute disaster.”

Narcissa Malfoy was not the type of woman who displayed her emotions freely. Malfoy women – Black women, for that matter – had been raised to find that sort of behaviour beneath them. A decade of finishing school prior to ever setting foot at Hogwarts was not easily forgotten.

Today, however, Narcissa Malfoy found herself scowling.

“Honestly, mother, some of this – the portraits of the Greengrasses, their family history, Theo and Daphne’s story, which practically claims they're getting married tomorrow – could only have come directly from them. Page 13 claims that Potter and Weasley are my groomsmen. It’s not the worst thing, of course, but Astoria had demanded Cassius Warrington and Graham Montague round out the party. She’s going to throw a fit,” he mumbled grumpily.

Narcissa sniffed delicately. “Well,” she said, folding up the paper gingerly, as though it was cursed, “I think it’s quite clear who was behind this.”

Draco sighed heavily. “Tori’s parents.”

Narcissa pursed her lips. “Cassandra has always been a social climber. It’s a pity she’s so dreadfully incompetent.” She patted her son on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it too much, Draco. Rita and I have an… understanding. Consider it handled.”

Draco frowned. “What do you mean, you have an ‘understanding?’”

Narcissa smiled placatingly. “Now, Draco, really. Do you want to spend the next hour giving yourself wrinkles from overthinking, or would you like to enjoy a cup of tea with your mother?”

When she put it like that, it really wasn’t as though Draco had a choice.

______________________________________

**_Sunday, August 30, 10:30AM, Greengrass Manor_ **

Narcissa set her fork down delicately, patting her mouth with a napkin. “That was absolutely lovely, Cassandra. It almost took my mind off of that awful rag they call a newspaper.”

Theo exchanged a grimace with Daphne, then Draco. The paper had not been easy on them any more than it had been easy on Draco.

Cassandra Greengrass paled. Astoria stared back at her future mother-in-law blankly. Narcissa raised an eyebrow haughtily. “I assume you all have seen it, haven’t you?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t—” Astoria began.

Leon Greengrass cleared his throat loudly. “We didn’t see the need to trouble her with it, Narcissa, I’m sure you understand,” he inserted gruffly.

“Oh?” Narcissa said, her disdain for the decision evident. “Well, I think she ought to know, don’t you, Draco, dear? And you, Daphne, Theo? I certainly hope the two of you have seen it?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Theo responded. “Don’t you receive the Daily Prophet, Tori?”

Astoria shot a sharp look at her parents. “I do, generally. I’m not quite sure what happened this morning that I haven’t yet.” She threw Narcissa a pleading look. “Do you happen to have a copy, Mrs. Malfoy?”

Narcissa responded with a brilliant smile. “Of course, my dear. But darling, as I’ve told you, you must call me Narcissa.” She procured and enlarged the parchment wandlessly and wordlessly – never one to give up an opportunity for theatrics – and sent it across the table to Astoria.

Leon watched in horror as the paper neared closer and closer to his younger daughter. “Now, really—"

“Thank you so much,” Astoria smiled back, ignoring her father. Her face fell with each additional line she read, her horror notable with each page she turned. Her face grey, she set down the offending parchment, taking a moment to compose herself before rising from the table and sending the men scrambling to their feet. “Would you mind if Draco and I had a moment alone, please?”

Narcissa responded before the Greengrasses could even open their mouths: “Of course, my dear.”

Astoria took Draco’s hand and pulled him out of the room as demurely as possible. “This is absolute garbage, Draco. Are you alright?”

He smiled at her, weakly but reassuringly. “I’m not, but I will be, once my mother deals with yours.”

Astoria pulled away from him, evaluating, appraising. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, it’s obvious who’s behind this, isn’t it?”

“Not to me, apparently!”

Draco scoffed. “Oh, come on, Tori, think about it for a minute! Who has access to information about both our families? Who wants to see the Greengrasses rise to the top again? Who keeps trying to pressure Theo and Daphne into an immediate marriage? Who thinks it’s a bad idea for you to be marrying a Death Eater? Your mother, who else?!”

Astoria recoiled. “How could you say that? My mother loves you, and she just wants Daphne to be happy! If anyone, your mother wasn’t all too keen on having me as a daughter-in-law—”

“Are you accusing _my mother_ , a _Malfoy_ , of publicly smearing her only son and the entirety of House Malfoy? Do you know how ludicrous that sounds?”

“Not any more ludicrous than you accusing mine!”

Draco laughed sardonically. “If you don’t see it, you’re blind, Tori.”

Her eyes hardened and she inhaled deeply, drawing herself up to her full height – which, at less than 168 centimetres, was not very much compared to Draco. “I would advise you not to speak about any of my family in that way in the future, particularly if you still plan on being a part of it. Now, I plan on returning to that room and apologizing to Narcissa, Daphne, and Theo for their experiences, but if you believe that to be an apology on behalf of my mother for your—your quite frankly ridiculous and offensive theory, you will be sorely mistaken.”

Draco gaped at her.

“You’ll have to send apologies to Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley—”

“For fuck’s sake, Tori, just call them Harry and Ron or Potter and Weasley like a normal person—”

“—and I’ll send a note to Hermione to apologize for the publicity, I don’t want her to feel as though we’re using her.”

Draco stiffened. “She’s my friend, I should do it.”

“She’s _my_ bridesmaid!” Astoria shot back.

“Because of _my_ friendship with her!”

Astoria’s eyes were blazing now, her anger palpable. “Fine. We’ll both send her a note. Happy? And I’ll have to send one to Cassius and Graham, apologizing and letting them know that they won’t be in the wedding.”

Draco frowned. “I hadn’t even asked them yet.”

“Yes, well, I had.”

“That wasn’t for you to do!”

“Are we really going to debate this now? Fine, you can write to them instead, too. Happy?”

“I didn’t say I wanted that,” Draco grumbled.

Astoria scoffed. “Of course you don’t. Stop acting like a child, Draco, it’s beneath you.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “What I don’t understand is why you’re acting like just because Skeeter wrote it, we have to go by her words. Warrington and Montague can still be in the wedding.”

“Have you lost your mind? If we go with Cassius and Graham now, people will say you’ve fallen out with the Golden Trio, and they’ll start questioning why, making up all sorts of reasons, claiming you’ve gone back to the Dark side or some absolute _lunacy_ like that. And even though you’ve decided to take your frustration out on me and my mother, I will absolutely not stand for anyone smearing you in the same way.” Her face softened slightly. “I care about you deeply, Draco, and I just want us to be on the same team. I want us to be happy, together. It’s up to you to decide whether you’re on the same page, or if you want to prioritize warring against my parents instead.” She took his hands in hers, staring imploringly into his grey eyes. “So tell me. Do you want that, too? 

Looking into her green eyes, Draco didn’t quite know what to think. So he said the only thing he could.

“I want that, Tori. I want you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's curious, the 23 members of the Weasley family are now as follows:
> 
> Molly & Arthur  
> Andromeda, Narcissa, Teddy Lupin, & Draco  
> Bill, Fleur, & their two (so far) children Victoire and Dominique  
> Charlie  
> Percy & Audrey  
> George  
> Ron & Parvati (who haven't been dating long, but Molly absolutely adores her)  
> Ginny & Harry  
> Hermione  
> Theo & Daphne  
> Pansy  
> Blaise


	9. The First Week Back

**_Monday, August 31, 5AM: Hermione and Ginny's Flat_ **

Hermione was not doing well.

She had been up practically all night, frantic at the thought of having to see Draco at the Ministry. Granted, she had substantially fewer interactions with any DMLE employees given her new department, but the Ministry wasn’t so large that she could be sure she’d be able to avoid him. It didn’t help that, at this point, they shared an entire friend group.

Lying in bed at 5AM, panicking, Hermione suddenly realized why she had held back from acting on her feelings as long as she had. _This_ was why. Their lives were too intertwined, at this point. Any fallout, a single disagreement, or, Morgana-forbid, a break-up, would have devastated the careful balance of the lives they had fought for after the war.

Considering the circumstances, though, Hermione thought an actual break-up would have been better than whatever this was. At least then, she’d be able to scream and shout and cry and break things openly.

Monday was fairly low-risk, Hermione decided. Nerve-wracking, yes, but she’d be in meetings all day to discuss the findings from her trip. Tuesday would be spent with Minerva and Michael Corner – the new Muggle Studies teacher at Hogwarts – conducting a final review of the curriculum before classes began on Wednesday, when she would sit through a full day of class, observing the new curriculum while under the protection of a very advanced disillusionment charm so as not to disturb the children.

The rest of the week, however, was dangerous.

Not only would Hermione be in the office all day on Thursday, with no more than three meetings currently on her schedule, but she would be leaving two hours early to spend the remainder of the afternoon with Astoria Greengrass and her band of bridesmaids.

She was still conflicted about why she had agreed to participate in the wedding. Some small, treacherous part of her suggested that Hermione was punishing herself for her cowardly behaviour, demonstrating that her actions – or lack thereof – had consequences.

Any small part of her that had wanted to abandon her post to run as far away from Wizarding Britain and the happy couple as possible had been quashed the second her name had been splayed across the pages of the Prophet yesterday. The publicity that would come with backing out was too much for Hermione to handle.

But maybe that was just another excuse to rationalize the torture she was putting herself through by being a bridesmaid.

Nevertheless, she _was_ a bridesmaid, and she was determined to be the best bridesmaid Astoria Greengrass could have ever imagined. Hermione Granger was never anything short of the best at anything.

Or perhaps she was simply filled with guilt for sleeping with the woman’s fiancé for three-quarters of a year.

Motivations notwithstanding, there was a non-zero chance Draco himself would be there, and she was not looking forward to it.

She counted herself lucky that dinner had been cancelled this week in anticipation of the engagement party on Saturday – which, as a member of the wedding party, Hermione was expected – no, required – to attend.

The only respite Hermione would be receiving this week was a “Girls’ Night” on Tuesday, hastily thrown together by Ginny and Pansy, each forced to watch Hermione and Daphne, respectively, mope about all weekend.

“All right, Granger, think through this logically,” she muttered to herself after mentally outlining her schedule. “The risk you’ll see him at the office is slim to none. Thursday is the only possibility.” She nodded at Crookshanks, who had taken the moment to perch upon her chest.

“Meow?”

“Yes, I’m sure, Crooks.”

Crookshanks narrowed his green eyes at her, his purrs ceasing. 

“Oh, come on, darling, don’t you believe in manifestation? You’ve got to believe it, and it’ll happen. This is me manifesting. I will not see Draco Malfoy this week. I _refuse_ to see Draco Malfoy this week. It simply won’t be a possibility.”

“Meow,” he responded doubtfully.

______________________________________

**_Monday, August 31, 8:00AM: The Ministry of Magic_ **

Naturally, the first person Hermione Granger saw on Monday morning was Draco Malfoy.

Unable to fall back asleep, she had come in two hours early when Ginny had left for practice, hoping to at least get a head start on her day if she couldn’t get more sleep.

Less than an hour after she had come in, Hermione had found herself practically dozing off at her desk from lack of sleep. “I need coffee,” she mumbled to the empty office, grabbing her purse and swaying drowsily out the door. She had barely stepped out of the lift when she saw him.

Her eyes blew wide.

He had evidently spotted her first.

Draco was walking determinedly towards the lift, eyes trained on Hermione, who seemed to be frozen in place. When he was hardly 4 metres away, she seemed to recover herself, darting back into the empty lift and frantically pressing the close button, praying to every god or sorcerer or force that might be out there to save her from the incoming interaction.

The lift doors shut when Draco an arm’s length away.

Hermione slumped against the back wall, staring up at the mirrored ceiling and noting how all the colour had seemed to drain from her face.

It was far too early for this.

______________________________________

**_Tuesday, September 1, 7:15PM: Hermione & Ginny’s Flat_ **

“So?” Ginny asked, plopping down into a chair, red wine in hand. “How is everyone?”

The room was silent. Pansy and Ginny exchanged a glance.

The redhead rolled her eyes. “Alright, fine, I’ll start. I’m doing great, considering I don’t have to worry about running into my best-friend-slash-ex-shagging-partner at work constantly. Pansy?”

“I’m excellent, Ginny, thank you for asking. No balancing seven different conflicts-of-interest here. Definitely no panicking about how the fuck I’m supposed to maintain relationships with my sister and two best friends and parents now that they’re all pitted against each other. Hermione? Daphne?”

“I’m fine,” Hermione and Daphne said in unison.

Pansy and Ginny grimaced at each other.

“We’re going to need more alcohol for this.”

______________________________________

**_Tuesday, September 1, 8:00PM: Hermione & Ginny’s Flat_ **

“So I’m about to leave the lift at 8 in the fucking morning, an hour before ANYONE should be at the Ministry, and who do I see? Draco sodding Malfoy! Of all the fucking people!”

Daphne groaned, taking a large swig of wine. “He’s such—he’s such a fu— a fu—“ she hiccupped, “A fucking _menace_! He’s fucking this all up _royally_ and he’s not even fucking _royalty_? And then there’s my fucking mother, using my sister’s _disastrous_ engagement to try and—to try and _coerce_ me and Theo into marriage. As fucking if!”

Pansy gasped. “I _knew_ that Skeeter thing had Cassandra’s hands all over it!” She threw her hands up triumphantly, sloshing firewhiskey onto the sofa.

Daphne exhaled a stifled scream. “I _hate_ this _whole thing_! Mother is using it as a fucking tool to push everyone into her stupid fucking _life plan_.” She rolled her eyes. "My _darling_ mother has settled on a new strategy, _stupidly_ thinking that the moment my _dear_ sister dons a white dress and becomes the talk of the whole bloody Wizarding World, the more likely Theo and I will be to finally set a date for the wedding."

Pansy snorted doubtfully.

"I mean, she acts like I'm bloody ancient, for Merlin's sake. Why on earth would I want to be married at 25? I'm not Tracey, for crying out loud, and I’m not Tori, either! The only reason Theo proposed as early as he did was so that we could live together without my parents bloody _disinheriting_ me. Black sheep Daphne, as always!”

Ginny raised her bottle. “Hear, hear!”

“I’m just so _fucking_ tired of it! I love Astoria, I really do, but I’m sick of her judging me because my life path isn’t the one she would choose. She’s so fucking smart and so bloody _nice_ , but somehow too stupidly trusting to realize mother is using her against me! and I’m sick of mother using Tori’s so-called ‘successes’ against me! Does it matter that I’m the best designer in Wizarding Britain? That I co-own the most up-and-coming atelier in the country? Apparently not! Even Narcissa, bless her, is more appreciative of me – of us – than my mother is.”

Pansy nodded grimly in agreement.

“And then there’s Draco! Stupid fucking Draco! Thinks he’s doing the right thing, but really he’s just making everyone miserable in the process, including himself! And here I am, caught in the middle!”

Hermione’s face dimmed upon hearing Draco’s name and Daphne froze immediately, realizing her mistake. “Fuck, Hermione, that wasn’t fair, you’re the one really hurt by this—”

Hermione shook her head drunkenly. “Daph, no. No, no, no. You _don’t_ have to prioritize everyone else’s emotions all the time, especially not mine. I’m fine. And it’s not like you can talk to Theo about this, or Astoria, or, Merlin forbid, Draco, and Blaise wouldn’t understand, so who else are you going to tell—”

“Hermione, you’re such a fucking hypocrite!” Ginny interjected, swaying slightly as she jumped to her feet. “You’re telling Daphne to let it all out – which, Daph, I agree with, by the way, you’re so bottled up it’s a shock to everyone you haven’t burst already – but you absolutely refuse to talk about any of your feelings! It’s like we got two days of Real Hermione and now we’re back to some stupid boxed-up version, as if hiding all of this from us for eight months isn’t part of the reason why you’re so miserable to begin with!”

Hermione gaped at Ginny like a dying fish. “I told all of you everything this weekend!”

“Everything that happened _before_ Astoria, not how you’re feeling now! And then you returned to being a little box of emotions screaming to get out after brunch on Sunday!”

“I am not a box!”

“Yes, you are!”

“I am _not_!”

“No offense, Granger, but you are,” Pansy said.

Hermione turned to Daphne as if begging for backup. Daphne grimaced apologetically. “Sorry, love, but you have been a bit quiet about all this. Not that I blame you!” She said quickly, “It’s a horrible situation and it’s natural that you don’t want to talk about it, but I think Pans and Gin are right and you really should. It might be helpful,” She added hopefully.

Hermione sighed, deflated, staring at her wine. “Fine. Maybe I am a little boxed-up.”

Ginny and Pansy allowed themselves a small smile of success before schooling their features once more.

“I guess I’m just frustrated, and angry, and sad, and I’m never quite sure how to act about the whole thing,” She continued. “He’s my best friend, and I loved him before I was _in_ love with him, you know? Part of me feels like I should be happy for him, having found something he wants to marry.”

The other three girls scoffed. Hermione hardly noticed. “I also feel like I _deserve_ it, you know?”

“Oh, come _on_!” Ginny exclaimed, outraged.

“Fuck that, Granger!” Pansy shouted.

“Hermione, absolutely not,” Daphne said, much quieter than the other two friends. 

Hermione shook her head. “I mean, not totally, but a little. I mean, I was kind of a bitch. I think he did try, looking back on it. Not a lot, and never explicitly, and I was just so _stressed_ about _everything_ , especially with the new department at work and all that that I never really trusted the hints I thought I was seeing. And part of me really thinks it’s all my fault. If I had just owled him when I was in Paris, maybe things would be different.” She slumped, throwing back the rest of her wine.

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Hermione, are you seriously saying any of that excuses him showing up to dinner – _your_ dinners –”

“ _Our_ dinners!” Hermione corrected.

“ _Your_ dinners with his new _fiancée_? Without even telling you? I think the fuck not.”

Hermione paused for a moment, evaluating. “No, I suppose not. Look, I’m not saying I forgive him or that he was right to do what he did, I’m just saying I keep thinking about how he had definitely tried to tell me he wanted me and I hadn’t.”

Ginny huffed. “If what you told us Saturday is accurate – and I’m betting it is – then he was also literally going on dates with other witches while you were shagging him. How the fuck are you supposed to bear your soul to a man who could be fucking other women on the days you don’t see him?”

“He wasn’t,” Hermione said quietly.

“Wasn’t what?” Daphne asked gently.

“Fucking other women. He told me he wasn’t. He wouldn’t have lied about that.”

Despite Hermione’s words, a small, treacherous voice in the back of her head remained unconvinced. _Wouldn’t he?_ It said. _He couldn’t even be bothered to tell you about Astoria. Wouldn’t he have lied about this, too?_

Ginny brandished her bottle, waving away Hermione’s rebuttal. “That may be so, but he was still literally searching for a wife while he was with you. Doesn’t really inspire faith in the man, does it?”

“I told him it was fine with me!”

“And if he had really been in love with you, would he have ever even asked? I mean, the man’s only 24! What made him need to get engaged so badly that he had to start wife-hunting immediately?”

Daphne and Pansy exchanged an uneasy look.

Ginny continued, “And if he was so in love with you, why didn’t he try and ask you first?”

Hermione was silent.

Ginny sat back. “I rest my case.”

“He’s a dick, Ginny, and I may never forgive him, but no one can say he didn’t try. And that’s what I hate most about this whole thing.”

Daphne cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Alright, more wine. Or maybe something stronger.”

______________________________________

**_Tuesday, September 1, 9:30PM: Hermione & Ginny’s Flat_ **

“Granger, you can’t _seriously_ be thinking of wearing _that_ to the party. Have you absolutely lost your mind?”

“What’s wrong with it?!” Hermione asked, mildly offended.

“You wore it to the Ministry’s Christmas ball two years ago, Hermione,” Daphne chimed in.

Hermione snorted, stumbling backwards and plopping onto her bed. “Oh, come on, no one’s going to know that! You two only remember because you literally work in fashion. It’s a perfectly lovely dress.”

Pansy snorted. “It _was_ lovely two years ago.”

“Well, I don’t have anything else, so this’ll have to do.”

“Didn’t you _just_ say we both work in fashion? Have you forgotten so soon?” Pansy retorted.

“I can’t ask you to do that for me! You’re probably way too busy already, and Daphne doesn’t have the time to design something new, do you, Daph?”

Daphne grinned. “Actually, we have a favour to ask you and Ginny.”

The Gryffindors side-eyed one another. Daphne grimaced. “It’s nothing major. Just, Pansy and I are coming out with a new line, something really new. We’re merging Muggle and Wizarding formalwear. And we want the two of you to help us promote it.” She gave her friends her best sad-pygmy-puff impression. “Please, guys? It would seriously mean so much to both of us.”

“Holy shit, really?” Ginny said excitedly. “Of course we’ll do it, you idiots!”

“Granger?” Pansy asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Hermione huffed. “Well, obviously we’ll do it, but we’re hardly models. Wouldn’t you be better off with someone else?”

Ginny whacked Hermione on the arm. “Shut up, H, I want to wear their clothes!”

Daphne giggled. “We have models, too, but we want to roll out slowly at first. Get people talking, get them wondering. Then we’ll do a full-scale launch when the time is right.”

“So you’ll do it, yes?” Pansy confirmed. “Right, we’ll have to send matching ties or pocket squares over to your dates. So we’ll send Harry’s stuff home with you, Ginny, but who are you taking, Hermione?”

Hermione looked back and forth between her friends. “I—I wasn’t planning on taking anyone.” Between Pansy’s gobsmacked look and Daphne’s concerned expression, Hermione was quickly realizing that prospect was less innocuous than she had originally thought. “Is that a problem?”

Pansy threw herself into Hermione’s armchair dramatically. “I’m genuinely starting to wonder if I’ve taught you nothing in our years of friendship, Granger.”

“I don’t see the issue. It’s not like you’re going with anyone either!”

“Circe, Granger, do you seriously think I would show up at one of these things without a date? Of course I’m going with someone! Blaise, obviously! There is absolutely no way you can go to this thing alone unless you want to spend the night being whispered at by pureblood women so old they should honestly be dead by now. You _have_ to bring someone. It’s not an option.”

Hermione groaned. “Are you seriously telling me I’m the _only_ one going stag?”

Daphne sent her an empathetic look, flopping onto the bed. “Why don’t you go with George?” She offered.

Ginny shook her head. “Can’t, he’s taking Alicia.”

Pansy stiffened in her chair. “Alicia Spinnet?”

Ginny threw a piece of popcorn into the air, catching it in her mouth. “The one and only.”

“I—I didn’t know he was seeing her,” Pansy said icily.

Daphne squinted at her, puzzled by the reaction.

Ginny brushed her off. “No, no, he’s not. They’re friends. Alicia knows Astoria through some charity thing she volunteered for last year, so she was already going. Nothing more there.”

“Oh!” Pansy exclaimed. “Oh. How interesting.”

Hermione was extraordinarily confused by the relief practically radiating off of her friend upon hearing that. Did Pansy—?

No. There was no way.

Pansy barrelled ahead, covering up her earlier behaviour. “Anyway, Granger, you need to find a date, and _fast_. If you show up at Astoria’s fitting on Thursday and still don’t have a date, Tracey will fucking destroy you. Fucking bitch,” she muttered.

The thorough analysis would have to wait, however. There were more pressing issues at hand.

“Tracey? Isn’t she Astoria’s best friend?” Ginny asked.

Daphne made a face. “Yes, unfortunately. Tracey really is the worst of the worst. There’s a reason she doesn’t have any friends from our year.” She looked surreptitiously at Pansy, her expression unreadable. “Hermione,” she said slowly, “I feel like we should warn you that she seems to have it out for you. I don’t think she knows anything, but she doesn’t seem to like you very much. If anything, I think it’s just that she doesn’t believe in men and women being platonic friends, so she’s naturally suspicious of your relationship with Draco.”

“Considering she’s not wrong, can we really blame her?” Hermione muttered.

“Point is,” Pansy jumped in, “You need to be careful around her. She’s not a nice person, and she’s as Slytherin as they come. And I don’t mean that in a pleasant way. Tracey Davis is a fucking snake.”

______________________________________

**_Wednesday, September 2, 12:00PM: Hogwarts, Professor Michael Corner’s Office_ **

Michael Corner was a nice man, one capable of holding a conversation (despite his slightly foolish personality at Hogwarts), and under different circumstances, Hermione would be chomping at the bit to debate the merits of different approaches to Muggle Studies with him.

Today, however, due to an unforeseen and quite frankly stupid shortage of hangover potions in her apartment, her head was pounding far too much to engage much with anything.

“—and I seriously think the idea of placing students in different Muggle Studies courses based on heritage will just result in more divides—Hermione? Are you quite alright?”

Hermione shook her head and immediately regretted the action, her head throbbing as a result. “I’m fine, Professor Corner, so sorry, I had a few drinks with some friends last night and I’m afraid I hadn’t restocked my supply of hangover potions. It’s terribly unprofessional of me, I sincerely apologize.”

Michael shot her a brilliant smile. “We’ve all been there, no need to apologize. And please, I insist that you call me Michael. Like I said, Professor always makes me feel a bit old.” He winked at her, summoning a small vial seemingly out of nowhere. “I always keep one in my desk, for myself or the wayward sixth-year.”

Hermione smiled gratefully, downing the potion. “A much more progressive strategy than the ones employed with us, don’t you think?”

He laughed – a nice-sounding laugh, Hermione conceded. “Well, naturally. I try to be the professor my younger self would have appreciated. Of course, there’s the added benefit of not having to worry about an impending war. Makes it a bit easier to remain calm and understanding. But that’s not exactly a pleasant topic of conversation. How have you been? Any exciting plans coming up?”

“You mean other than Flooing back and forth to Hogwarts?” Hermione teased.

“Well, if that’s the highlight of your week, I’d consider it the highest of compliments, Hermione.”

Hermione paused. _Wait._ Was Michael Corner – _Professor_ Michael Corner of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – flirting with her? She laughed nervously. “Well, erm, it’s my first week back from France, so I can’t say there’s much going on.”

“Ah, I see. Yes, it’s a fairly tame week here, too, as far as extra-curricular commitments go. First week of class is always a bit mad, but it does give me more downtime in the evenings. It’s the weeks before and after that are really packed.” He paused, his gaze loaded with meaning. Hermione took a too-large bite of salad. “I don’t suppose you might be free for dinner or a drink tonight? Or perhaps tomorrow?”

“God, I’m sorry, Michael, but I really can’t, the next couple nights are actually fairly busy now that I think about it. I’m a bridesmaid in a wedding, and I’ve got a few fittings and such to attend, sadly,” Hermione fudged, privately debating whether or not that was a total lie.

Michael’s face fell slightly. “Of course, you’re a busy woman, I completely understand. Unless— do you happen to be free Saturday evening?”

Hermione practically stopped in her tracks. _“There is absolutely no way you can go to this thing alone unless you want to spend the night being whispered at by pureblood women so old they should honestly be dead by now. You have to bring someone. It’s not an option.”_

Fuck.

She smiled at him coyly. “I might be, if you’re not opposed to doing something a bit…different.”

______________________________________

**_Thursday, September 3, 2:53PM: Hermione’s Ministry Office_ **

Compared the chaos of the past week, Hermione was having a rather wonderful day.

Her three meetings had gone spectacularly well and had been substantially shorter than normal, leaving Hermione with enough time to step out for coffee at 10 _and_ lunch at noon, working leisurely – if Hermione Granger could ever be described as doing something leisurely – on preliminary plans for the pre-Hogwarts first-year curriculum in between.

As the clock crept closer and closer to 3PM, however, her anxiety began to show. She hadn’t seen Draco since her non-interaction with him on Monday at the lift, and she hadn’t seen Astoria since that awful dinner Friday night, if she didn’t count seeing pictures of the woman in the _Prophet_.

The prospect of spending the afternoon with her was petrifying, and Hermione Granger was not easily petrified.

As the clock ticked past 2:50, Hermione came to a rather panicked realization. She had no idea where she was meeting Astoria and the rest of the girls, nor did she know how she should get there.

She had just packed her things and written a polite, appropriately-distant note to Astoria inquiring about the location of their meeting when disaster struck.

“Granger.”

_Oh, fuck._

Hermione turned around slowly, note still in hand. “Malfoy.”

He took a hesitant step forward. “I apologize for the intrusion, but Astoria’s asked me to deliver this to you and escort you to the fitting this afternoon.” His arm came up stiffly, extending a crisp ivory envelope addressed to _Miss Hermione J. Granger_ without getting any closer.

Hermione walked towards him slowly, cautiously, approaching him much in the way one would approach a wounded but dangerous wild animal. She stopped when she was just over an arms-length away, reaching out for the envelope delicately. Her hand closed around the paper, fingertips brushing his as she took it from him.

The touch was like fire.

Her eyes snapped up to his, and Hermione was unnerved by their flatness.

He was occluding.

Hermione hadn’t seen him this closed-off around her since his father’s death.

She spun around, walking back briskly towards her desk as she opened the envelope.

“I’m sure I can make it without an escort, if you could just tell me where I should be meeting her.”

“Astoria was very firm in her instructions. I will be escorting you there.”

“There’s really no need—”

“For Merlin’s sake, Granger, do you really want to arouse suspicion over a non-issue?” Draco spat, his eyes flickering with the smallest trace of emotion.

“A non-issue for you, maybe, but most certainly an issue for me!”

His eyes went flat again. “It’s not up for debate, Granger,” he said, watching as she unfolded the parchment within. “I apologize for the delay in your receipt of that, I tried to deliver it to you a few times this week, but, well,” he trailed off, “I wasn’t quite able to catch you.”

_Dear Hermione,_

_I hope you are well, my dear. It has recently come to my attention that the Daily Prophet has published a rather distasteful series of articles about you and your friends due to your connection with the wedding. You have my sincerest apologies for these dreadful postings. I hope you believe me when I say neither Draco nor I knew they would be running anything about the wedding, nor about you, Mr. Potter, or Mr. Weasley. This has shocked us equally, and I only wish I had known beforehand so I may have tried to stop it._

_I shall speak quite frankly now, and I hope you’ll excuse me for any possible impertinence in that regard. I’m sure you’re quite sick of people using you for your status and connections after the war, and it saddens me that you might view this weekend’s events as more of the same. The Prophet and Miss Skeeter have received a strongly worded letter from the Greengrass family, and I am certain nothing like this will be happening again._

_I know we do not know each other well as of yet, but as Draco’s friend, I wish nothing but the best for you and hope you and I might form our own bond in due time. In that vein, I hope you’ll be so kind as to have coffee with me next week. Please let me know when you might be available – consider it part of my apology._

_Sincerely,_

_Astoria_

Hermione hated herself for having thought Astoria was behind Sunday’s events.

“You couldn’t have left this at my office? Or owled it to me? I’m going to see her in less than 5 minutes and she’ll think I’ve been ignoring her all week, Malfoy!”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t be overdramatic, Granger, I already took the fall. Now, are you ready to go, or do you want to keep her waiting?”

______________________________________

**_Thursday, September 3, 3:00PM: Parkinson-Greengrass Designs_ **

Astoria Greengrass had been the one to voluntarily extend the olive branch of friendship to Hermione. Certainly, she had spent the majority of dinner on Tuesday brushing off Tracey’s so-called “intel” on Draco and Hermione’s alleged relationship. And yes, Astoria had been the one to insist that Draco escort Hermione to their fitting.

But nothing really could have prepared her for the sight of Hermione Granger apparating directly into the entrance of the atelier on _her_ fiancé’s arm.

Granted, both parties appeared as uncomfortable as humanly possible, and yes, Hermione had dropped Draco’s arm like a hot stone the moment they were on solid ground, but it didn’t do much to quell the traitorous little burst of anxiety she felt in her gut the moment she saw them together.

She found herself more grateful than ever that Tracey had gone to help Daphne with the tea moments earlier, confident that if she glanced at her friend in that moment, she would see a barely-restrained expression of _I-told-you-so_.

Instead, she glided towards _her_ fiancé and the woman next to him, plastering a gracious smile onto her face.

 _Draco is nothing if not trustworthy, and Hermione is his perfectly lovely friend,_ Astoria mentally repeated. _You have absolutely nothing to worry about. Tracey is wrong._

______________________________________

**_Thursday, September 3, 3:00PM: Parkinson-Greengrass Designs_ **

“Hermione, I’m so glad you could make it,” Astoria said, stretching her arms out in greeting. “I hope Draco delivered my note safely?”

Hermione took her offered hands, kissing her cheeks in greeting. “Hello, Astoria. I just had a chance to read it earlier. To begin, I’d just like to say it’s really nothing to worry about, Rita Skeeter has always had it out for me. And I’d love to have coffee with you next week. Does Wednesday work?”

Both women noticed and ignored Draco stiffening next to them.

“Wednesday is perfect,” Astoria smiled brightly. “Now come, we’re just about to have tea. You’re just in time. And you, darling, hello there,” she said, turning to Draco and kissing him briefly. “Escort us in?”

Draco cleared his throat uneasily, throwing an awkward, apologetic look Hermione’s way before offering her his left arm and Astoria his right.

Hermione had never felt so uncomfortable in her life, hand on Draco’s arm while Astoria chattered on about robes and dresses and flowers and themes and weddings.

If she had been in a different headspace, Hermione would have found the look of incredulity on Pansy’s face when she saw them enter the sitting room rather amusing.

In that moment, however, she was a bit preoccupied with the venomous look Tracey was sending her way.

This was going to be an absolute disaster.

______________________________________

**_Thursday, September 3, 3:20PM: Parkinson-Greengrass Designs_ **

“So, Hermione, what is it that you do, exactly?” Tracey asked.

Hermione set her teacup down with a clink, earning a satisfied smirk from Tracey. “I’m the Head of the Department of Wizard-Muggle Relations.”

“And what exactly does the Head of the Department of Wizard-Muggle Relations do?”

“It’s fairly straightforward, Tracey,” Daphne cut in.

“I wasn’t aware that you were part of the Department, Daphne.”

“We work to improve the ties between magical and non-magical communities in Britain,” Hermione responded icily, picking the teacup back up.

“Ah. How quaint. I’m sure you’ll have us abolishing the Statute of Secrecy next.”

"Tracey!" Astoria chided. "Don't be ridiculous."

Hermione’s grip on her cup tightened.

______________________________________

**_Thursday, September 3, 3:30PM: Parkinson-Greengrass Designs_ **

“So Draco, Hermione, how on earth do the two of you know each other? Bit of an odd friendship, don’t you think?”

Hermione didn’t miss the warning glare Astoria sent Tracey.

“Don’t be silly, Trace, I told you. They became friends during their eighth year at Hogwarts,” Astoria jumped in.

“Which she would know if she hadn’t fled the country like a coward before the war,” Pansy muttered sunder her breath. 

Draco snickered into his fist, masking the noise with a cough.

Tracey turned sharply to the source of that comment. “What was that, Pansy?”

“Oh, nothing. More tea, Hermione?” Pansy winked.

“Yes, thank you, Pansy,” Hermione said, smiling back at her friend.

“Anyway,” Tracey continued, turning back to Hermione. “I don’t mean to pry. It’s just such an uncommon… relationship, what the two of you have. You seem very close, given your past, from what Cassius tells me.”

The entire table froze at that.

“Cassius?” Hermione asked.

Tracey simpered, pretending not to understand the question. “Oh, my fiancé, Cassius Warrington. He was two years older than us at Hogwarts. Much like Astoria and Draco!”

Draco set down his napkin with more force than necessary. “I wasn’t aware that Warrington knew much about my relationships these days, Tracey.”

She smiled meanly. “Don’t be so serious, Draco, I only mean that he’s run into the two of you at the Leaky Cauldron more than a few times.” She took a sip of tea, all but Astoria staring intently as she did so. “I keep telling him it’s really not somewhere someone like him should be, too much riffraff, but he insists that it’s the best place to—” she locked eyes with Draco – “People-watch.”

Hermione’s blood ran cold.

She knew.

______________________________________

**_Thursday, September 3, 4PM: Parkinson-Greengrass Designs_ **

Hermione was getting tired of listening to Tracey Davis dig for information. She was cursing Pansy internally for leaving the room to show Astoria last season’s collection. As if old dresses were more urgent than Hermione’s calamity of an afternoon.

“It’s so odd that you’re unattached, Hermione. I’m sure many wizards must be pining after the Golden Girl.”

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Any wizard lusting after that title doesn’t know me at all.”

“Well, I’m sure after seeing you in this dress on Saturday, they’ll be lusting after something else,” Tracey smirked. “You’ve really outdone yourself, Daphne. She looks like a completely different person.”

Hermione wanted to punch her harder than she had punched Draco third year.

Daphne looked up aggravatedly from her position on the ground, stabbing a pin into the green fabric with a bit more force than necessary. “Thank you, Tracey.”

“It’s so interesting that you’ve put her in Slytherin Green, Daphne. Any particular reason? You don’t happen to be attending with a Slytherin, do you?”

Hermione’s eye twitched. “No, I am not.”

“Well, of course not. You’ve become well-known for being unattainable over the past few years, Hermione, I’d be surprised if you _were_ going with someone!”

Daphne looked up at Hermione, jaw clenched. “Well, you should be surprised then, Tracey, because Hermione is going with someone. Right, Hermione?”

“I am, Daphne, yes,” she responded, trying to convey her gratefulness with her eyes.

The look on Tracey’s face belonged in a scrapbook. “Oh? Well, who is it, then?”

Hermione was more thankful than ever that Pansy and Daphne had coerced her into asking someone, and even more grateful that her choice was an objectively handsome, well-known but entirely unoffensive Hogwarts Professor. She smiled sickeningly sweetly. “Michael Corner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, I'm not in love with this chapter. I like it, but it's definitely not my favourite. I wrote and rewrote it 6 times, though, and I am determined to post on Sundays, so you're getting it anyway. If you like it, I would love some comments to ease my misery about it!
> 
> Next chapter is the engagement party, which I think will be substantially better. I'm very excited for it, and I hope you are too! As always, thank you for reading!
> 
> 2/14/21 UPDATE: Guys, I am so sorry, I won't be able to update this today. Things have been crazy at work lately and I have had literally no time to do any editing. I'll be back next Sunday or hopefully sooner with the next chapter!


	10. The Engagement Party, Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay!!! This is Part One of the actual engagement party. There are some sentimental interactions, some dramatic interactions, and some ~history~. It was getting fairly long, I try to keep chapters to 5000 words or less, and I didn't post Sunday, so you're getting Part One now and more on Sunday! The intense intense drama comes next, but hopefully this tides you over!
> 
> Note: Astoria calls her mom "mama" in this chapter. It is pronounced the posh British way, "muh-MAAH," not "mah-mah" or "maah-maah." Think of the Downton Abbey or The Crown pronunciations.

_**Saturday, September 5, 5:30PM: Hermione's Bedroom** _

“This is the worst idea I’ve ever had.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“No, you’re intentionally assessing the situation inaccurately in order to preserve my tattered emotions.”

“No, you’re being dramatic.”

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into bringing Michael.”

“To be fair, that was Pansy, not me.”

Hermione spun around sharply, shooting a dark look Ginny’s way. “I hate you. Fuck. I should call him and cancel.”

“Fairly sure he’s about to Floo in literally any second.”

Hermione turned grey just as the sound of fire springing to life reached their ears. “Oh my god.”

“No, no, don’t panic, Harry will occupy him for a bit. It’s going to be fine.”

“FUCK!” She whirled around, pacing up and down her bedroom. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. _Fuck._ What was I _thinking_? I shouldn’t be going at all! I should just—I should just send my excuses with you and Harry and—”

“Hermione, no. You were thinking,” Ginny soothed, “That you have to go, considering how much attention it would attract if you didn’t, and given that you have to go, you were thinking it would be a good idea to bring someone as a buffer and in order to blend in and avoid drawing more attention to yourself at a pureblood event that also happens to be your ex’s engagement party. And you were right. You are going to be fine.”

“He’s not my ex.”

Ginny choked back her preferred retort, instead choosing to run her hands up and down Hermione’s shoulders in a calming motion. “Hermione. You’re going to be fine. You’ve seen him a few times already, and you’re on perfectly good terms with Astoria, and Michael is a genuinely nice, attractive, smart man and a perfectly acceptable date for tonight. It was never going to be easy, but it’s not going to be the disaster you’re expecting.”

Hermione was silent. Ginny sighed. The situation called for the big gums. Gulls? Ginny had never quite understood that phrase.

“Do you want to talk to Harry?”

An odd mixture of panic and relief appeared on Hermione’s face. “Harry knows?”

The redhead grimaced. “Well, no. Not exactly. I mean, he knows there was something going on, that was obvious. And that you’ve been upset. And that Malfoy wasn’t supposed to get engaged, because you were so upset. But not the extent of it.”

Hermione’s face fell even further, if that was even possible.

“Okay, fuck it, I’m getting Harry. He doesn’t need to know the whole situation to handle this.”

“No, really, it’s okay, we should be going anyway—”

“On time is early. We have plenty of time. I’ll get Harry, just wait here.”

“But what about Michael?” Hermione asked, sounding rather like a teenager trying to get out of her chores.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “I dated the man for two months, I’m sure I can make conversation with him for twenty minutes.”

______________________________________

_**Saturday, September 5, 5:37PM: Hermione and Ginny's Living Room** _

“Michael!” Ginny greeted. “Great to see you. It’s been so long. Harry, sorry to bother, but Hermione actually needed some help coordinating bridesmaids-groomsmen duties. She’s got an awful lot of parchment in there, would you mind helping her out?”

Harry frowned at her. “Bridesmaids-groomsmen duties.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Ginny said, widening her eyes threateningly.

“Is there anything I can do?” Michael offered. “I hope she’s not too overwhelmed, I’d be happy to help!”

“No!” Ginny responded hurriedly. “No, sorry, got to be Harry, I’m afraid. Lovely as you are, Michael, it’s a wedding party thing, I’m afraid. She got an urgent owl from Astoria and _Draco_ , so if Harry could just help her sort things out with _all that_ , I’m sure it would be a _huge help_ , don’t you think, Harry?”

Harry’s eyes blew wide. “I—oh. Oh! Yes. Yes! Of course. I’ll just, uh, be right back then.” He stood abruptly. “Right. See you in a moment. Bye Michael,” he said, stumbling around the table.

“Sorry about that, Corner,” Ginny said placatingly to a befuddled Michael. “You know how weddings can be. Mad things, in my opinion. Definitely not worth all that time and money. Fancy a cup of tea? Glass of wine? Firewhiskey?”

______________________________________

_**Saturday, September 5, 5:40PM: Hermione's Bedroom** _

“Hermione?” Harry knocked. “Can I come in?”

“Harry!” Hermione whisper-shouted, throwing the door open. “Oh god, come in, come in. Fuck, I should have talked to you about this sooner, I’m so sorry, I’m really not sure where to begin, and honestly I’m not even sure what you know and we don’t have much time and I really should have filled you in earlier and honestly I’m not sure why I didn’t and—”

“Hermione!” Harry interrupted, casting a wandless muffliato before placing his hands on her shoulders reassuringly. “Take a deep breath. Three in, five out. We have as much time as you need.”

Hermione closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, placing her hands on Harry’s forearms. “Okay. I still don’t know where to start.”

“Okay. Why don’t you sit down first, and we can go from there.”

“I think I need to pace some more.”

“No. Sit. That’s a Harry-Potter-Certified order.”

Hermione managed a weak smile at that as he guided her to her bed. Once she was perched there and Harry was comfortably seated in an armchair, he began. “Here’s what I think. I think you had something going on with Malfoy, it ended badly, you left for France, he went and got himself engaged, and you were talked into bringing a date, which is why Michael Corner is currently sitting in your apartment, but now you regret both asking him to be your date _and_ choosing to go to this blasted thing at all. And you’re more heartbroken than you thought you were _and_ now you’re panicking. Yes?”

“This is one of those few times where I don’t hate that you’re using your Auror senses on me.” Hermione said drily. “Yes, that’s about right. Well, mostly. Your backstory’s a bit off, but I am panicking. And I am… I am really upset. I mean, we were together for _eight_ _months_ , Harry—”

At that moment, if Harry had been a lesser man and a lesser Auror, his expression might have betrayed his horror upon hearing that number. Instead, he resisted the urge to fiddle with his glasses, his fingers twitching on his thigh.

“—and granted, we weren’t _really_ together, but it was something. And now I’m in his stupid wedding and have to go to this stupid engagement party and cavort with his soon-to-be _wife_ as if everything’s okay. And I have a date, who’s honestly rather sweet, and I really feel like I’m leading him on here. I feel awful, and I feel like an awful person for dragging Michael into this and for being after someone else’s fiancé. It’s just terrible. I feel terrible.”

“You’re not awful, Hermione, the situation is awful. And if I were you, and this was Ginny’s engagement party to someone else, I’d be buried in emotions that I didn’t know what to with. It’s normal.”

“Oh, Harry, we’re not like you and Ginny. You and Ginny are – you’ve always been meant for each other. There’s never been anyone else for you, not in any real way.”

Harry looked at her intently, questioningly. “Maybe not. We can talk about that later. But the point is, your feelings are normal and valid and there are so many emotions here they’d probably fill a billion teaspoons. Ron would be shocked and appalled.”

Hermione smiled at him, her eyes watery. “He’s gotten really emotionally mature these days, you know. Probably has the range of a ladle, at this point.”

Harry chuckled. “He has, hasn’t he? But look, Hermione, the point is, you’ve never been one to run away from your feelings. You’re the woman who confronts them head on. And when it comes to Draco Malfoy, well. When has Draco sodding Malfoy ever stopped you from doing _anything_?”

Hermione gazed at him reprovingly. “You’re one of his best friends, you know.”

Harry grimaced. “I know. And he’s one of mine. But that doesn’t make what I said any less true.”

She looked down at her clasped hands. “I know it’s not like me, but I’d really love to run away from a situation for once.”

He stood, making his way over to where she sat. “I know,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “But that’s not who you are, and you know it. You’ve flown dragons, Hermione. You polyjuiced as Bellatrix Lestrange. You dueled Antonin Dolohov and survived. You’re the reason Ron and I are alive. You’re the youngest Department Head in Ministry history. You can make it through one shitty party. And then you and I are going to get cappuccinos and croissants from that really incredible Muggle café and we’ll talk about how you’re feeling until you run out of words. Okay?”

“I could never run out of words,” Hermione said, muffled by Harry’s arm.

“That’s true. Until they run out of coffee, then. But tonight you’re going to be _THE_ Hermione Granger, protector of house-elves, master of Polyjuice, pureblood-supremacist slayer. Got it?”

“I love you, Harry.”

“I love you too, Hermione.”

______________________________________

_**Saturday, September 5, 5:30PM: Draco's Flat** _

“You’re sure about this?” Theo asked, looking over his shoulder as he adjusted his cufflinks.

“Positive,” Draco drawled, conjuring a mirror to fix his hair.

“He’d better be, considering the whole bloody world already knows,” Blaise snorted.

“Great pep talk, Zabini,” Theo snarked.

“I don’t need a pep talk, Nott,” Draco sniffed.

“It’s not too late to back out. It’s only been, what, a week? If you change your mind now, no one will remember the whole thing in a few months.”

“Eager to avoid permanently linking yourself to me, Nott?”

“I’m serious. Narcissa will understand.”

Draco’s eyes darkened visibly. “Will you get off it, Theo?”

Blaise cut him off, standing abruptly and pointing to his two friends. “Alright, as interesting as I’m sure this is about to get, I’m really not interested in mediating another session of Malfoy-Nott Couple’s Therapy, so I’m going to go. Pansy’s going to throw a fit if I’m a minute late to pick her up. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Like that rules anything out—” Theo muttered.

“There’s nothing you wouldn’t do, Blaise—" Draco sneered.

Blaise disappeared with his hands in his pockets, smirking like a madman.

______________________________________

_**Saturday, September 5, 5:30PM: Greengrass Manor, Astoria's Dressing Room** _

“Darling,” Daphne said, charming an unruly strand of her sister’s hair back into a pristine chignon. “Are you sure about this?”

“Not this again,” Astoria sniffed.

“What do you mean, again?”

“Tracey’s been on my case all week about the whole thing. She seems to have some sort of crackpot theory about Draco and _Hermione Granger_ , if you can believe it. I’m sure you noticed her behaviour at tea the other day.”

Daphne paled. “Draco and Hermione? I—That’s ridiculous. What a funny thought,” she said, covering her unease with a too-high giggle.

“I know. For a moment, I thought she might be right, that there might be something there, but honestly, the way they keep acting around each other, it’s more like they hate each other. If I didn’t know them, I’d have struggled to believe they’re really friends. Anyway,” Astoria continued, “I apologize for snapping, it was uncouth. I’m simply exhausted by Tracey’s commentary.” She shook her head. “Salazar, what was she thinking? Trying to interrogate the Wizarding World’s most beloved heroine over what was supposed to be a friendly tea? I know she just wants to protect me, but sometimes Tracey really does lack a sense of grace in pursuing her whims.”

Daphne nodded stiffly. “Don’t apologize, dear. Besides, it’s nothing—it’s nothing like that. I just wonder whether you’re sure you want to be engaged and married so young. It seems like an awful lot at twenty-two.”

A flicker of something undistinguishable crossed her face before confusion settled across her features. “I’m not sure what you mean. 22 is quite normal in our circles, isn’t it? What else would you have me do?”

Daphne had just opened her mouth to respond, searching for all the ways she might tell her sister there was more to life than what “their circles,” more to life than what their parents wanted of them, more to life than marrying a man whom, if kind, was barely known to her, a man who was in love with someone else.

She was not, however, able to say any of that.

“You’re absolutely right, Tori, 22 is a perfectly respectable age to settle down. You’re doing the right thing, darling. Just because things have changed after the war doesn’t mean _everything_ has to change, Daphne, even if you don’t want to uphold our traditions.”

Astoria beamed, turning from the dressing table to greet her mother. “Hello, mama. How do I look?” she inquired mildly, a hint of insecurity creeping into her tone as she spun around for her mother, pink silk moving gently around her thin frame.

Daphne stood by the dressing table, hands nervously playing on the back of the chair as she watched the interaction unfold.

“Hello, darling,” Cassandra smiled, kissing her younger daughter warmly. “You look absolutely radiant. It’s a wonderful day for the Greengrass family. You do us proud, sweetheart.” She turned her gaze to her older child, most of the softness escaping her face as she evaluated her. “Won’t you greet your mother, Daphne, or is that yet another tradition you would have us do away with?”

Daphne released the chair reluctantly, moving slowly towards her mother. “Hello,” she greeted, kissing the air by her Cassandra’s cheeks stiffly.

Cassandra raised an eyebrow. “Turn around.”

If she hadn’t been put through nearly a decade of pureblood etiquette lessons, Daphne would have recoiled at the statement. Instead, she gritted her teeth invisibly and turned slowly, infused with none of the enthusiasm Astoria had spun with moments earlier.

“Hm,” Cassandra hummed, evaluating her daughter with a sharp, keen eye. “A bit non-traditional, don’t you think? And it’s blue, rather than the green I requested. But of course, that’s not surprising.”

“It’s actually quite brilliant, mama,” Astoria inserted, not catching the panicked glance Daphne was sending her way. “They’re working on a new line that combines Muggle and Magical fashion. Isn’t it beautiful?”

The warmth that had emanated from Cassandra’s eyes for a brief moment as she listened to her younger daughter dissipated in an instant as she turned back to her first child.

“That’s one way to put it, darling.”

______________________________________

_**Saturday, September 5, 6:34PM: The Ballroom at Greengrass Manor** _

Hermione was not having the worst time in the world. They had been at Greengrass Manor for just under 20 minutes, and barring a thirty-second greeting with the Greengrass parents and Narcissa upon their entry, there had been no Granger-Malfoy-Greengrass conversations. And that was perfectly fine with her.

“Where’s your top-secret date, Hermione?” Blaise smirked, waltzing up with Pansy on his arm. “Happy to step in, of course. I’ve always wanted to waltz around with two witches, if you know what I mean.”

“I fucking hate you, Blaise. And for your information, Michael is getting drinks and should be back any moment, so I’ll encourage you to keep your lewd advances to yourself.”

“I would, darling, really, but where’s the fun in that?” He waggled his eyebrows.

Pansy whacked his chest. “Behave, Zabini.”

“Hello, hello, hello, fellow scoundrels!” George greeted, strolling up with Alicia, Ron, and Parvati. “May I introduce you all to _the_ one and only Alicia Spinnet, _Lead_ Chaser of the Holyhead Harpies and World Cup athlete?”

Pansy, sleek as every in a high-necked, low-backed robe-dress number, went stiff as a rod.

Alicia grinned broadly, already hugging Harry, Ginny, and Hermione warmly. “Shut up, George. Hi, everyone.” She turned to the two Slytherins, extending her hand with a sweet smile. “I don’t think we’ve met yet!”

Blaise took her hand with a predatory smirk and placed a delicate kiss to her knuckles, staring directly into her eyes. “Blaise Zabini, at your service.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Blaise,” Alicia smirked back.

“Darling, I assure you, the pleasure is all mine,” he winked.

“Oi!” George interjected. “Hands off my date, Zabini.”

“No harm, no foul, Weasley,” Blaise grinned.

“She’s too smart for your lines anyway, mate.”

“Men,” Alicia rolled her eyes, amused, before settling back on Pansy. “But you must be Pansy! It’s so good to finally meet you.”

Pansy shook her hand, smiling thinly. “Finally?”

“Of course! I’ve heard so much about you.”

Pansy’s eyebrows inclined slightly, eyes darting between Alicia and George. “Oh?"

“Yes! Ginny adores you, although she’ll probably kill me for telling you that. If my suspicions are correct, you’re practically the same person,” Alicia explained.

The tension reappeared on Pansy’s face with a tight smile. “Oh, Ginny. Of course. I adore her too, but if you tell her that, I’d help her kill you.”

Hermione and Ginny, listening intently, exchanged a look.

“Alright, I’ve got a glass of red for Ginny, white for Harry, and more champagne for Hermione,” Michael declared, re-entering the group and distributing the drinks. “It seems I’ve missed some entrances! Hello, everyone, I’m Michael.”

A chorus of greetings and names arose, allowing Hermione the chance to tug Pansy aside and announce to no one in particular that they were just going to run to the ladies’.

“What the fuck was that about?” Hermione whispered.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Pansy replied, bringing her shoulders back and pulling her chin up.

“I think you do.”

“We’re not talking about this tonight.”

“So we are talking about this eventually?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Are you and George—”

“Oh!” Pansy exclaimed, her grip on Hermione’s arm tightening. “Mr. Greengrass, Mrs. Greengrass. How lovely to see you.”

Cassandra Greengrass, in her aubergine robes, smiled thinly at the girls, hanging even further onto her husband’s arm. “You mean since you last saw us about fifteen minutes ago, Miss Parkinson, when you were late?”

Pansy raised an eyebrow in a silent challenge.

Her lips twitched. “Simply joking, dear!” She tittered unconvincingly. “It is always a pleasure. And how good to see you again as well, Miss Granger. It’s not every day one meets Harry Potter’s best friend.”

“Mrs. Greengrass, Mr. Greengrass,” Hermione nodded.

“Such interesting company my son-in-law keeps,” Leon said gruffly. “The Golden Girl herself. Many would consider it an honour to have you in our home, Miss Granger.”

Pansy’s grip tightened even further.

“The honour is all mine, Mr. Greengrass,” Hermione responded uncertainly.

“And what do you think of it, Miss Granger?” Cassandra interjected with a saccharine smile. “Our home?”

Hermione – unable to read these people – chanced a look at Pansy, who was glaring daggers into the woman opposite them. “I—it’s lovely, Mrs. Greengrass.”

“Oh, my dear, but you must call me _Cassandra_ ,” the woman sneered, sounding out the name as though Hermione might otherwise forget how to pronounce it.

Hermione smiled weakly in response.

“To have a woman like you in our daughter’s wedding. It would have been unheard of, decades ago,” Leon said, reverting the conversation back to its earlier topic.

It took every ounce of Hermione’s self-control to keep her expression within the bounds of propriety. “I’m not sure I understand you, Mr. Greengrass.”

“A muggle-born _acting_ as a bridesmaid for a Sacred 28 wedding.” His eyes hardened for a moment before his previous neutral expression returned. “A sign of progress, of course. Progress welcomed by so many.”

“I should hope your family is included in welcoming that progress, Leon,” Pansy snapped.

“Well, of course! We Greengrasses are quite progressive, aren’t we, Leon?” Cassandra added hastily. “Simply so excited by the symbol of your participation. It really is an honour, _Hermione_.”

A chill passed through the Gryffindor witch upon hearing this woman say her name.

“If you two were going somewhere, I suggest you wait,” Leon said, his so-called suggestion laced with all the tone of a command. “We’ll be introducing the happy couple in just a few moments.”

Without another word, the Greengrasses swept away.

“Pansy,” Hermione began slowly, “Do the Greengrasses have any Death Eater ties?”

She shook her head. “They’re related to Death Eaters, like most pureblood families, but no Greengrass has ever taken the Mark, as far as we know. They’re French, after all.”

“Ethnically French? So are the Malfoys, what does that have to do with anything?”

The low buzz of a Sonorus charm filled the room.

“I mean, yes, but they’re literally from France. Leon and Cassandra both grew up there.”

“What? That makes no sense. The Greengrasses are a British pureblood family.”

Pansy huffed. “Honestly, Granger, have you never wondered why Daphne and Fleur know each other so well? Or why the wedding is at the Malfoy Chateau, not Malfoy Manor? Why they’re all so skilled with French?”

Hermione blinked at her.

“We are so grateful to all of you for being here on this happy night,” Cassandra’s crooning voice echoed through the room.

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Circe, I’m going to have to give you a fucking family history lesson in the next fifteen minutes. _Don’t_ interrupt.”

Hermione nodded weakly in agreement, listening in on Pansy’s whispers over the amplified voices of the Greengrass family.

“So Leon Greengrass was born in 1960. He was an only child, sole heir to the Greengrass fortune and name. He was horribly sick as a child, and his mother – a Yaxley, Corbin Yaxley’s aunt – was always terrified he would be dead when she woke up each morning. Leon’s grandmother was a French witch, a Gauthier, and they fled to the Gauthier Estate during the first war. He’s still a blood supremacist, mind you, his Yaxley mother made sure of that. That’s why he talked to you that way. Anyway, he ended up at Beauxbatons, which is where he met Cassandra. She was born Cassandra Linard, oldest daughter of one of the biggest pureblood families in Greece, in 1962.”

Hermione squinted. “Hold on. Cassandra is Greek? Linard is a French last name.”

“I told you not to interrupt!”

“Sorry!”

Pansy shook her head. “Also, what happened to Encyclopaedia Granger? Daphne and Astoria are both _Greek_ names, keep up. Anyway, so the Linards fled to France from Greece in 1967, once the Muggle military junta started. During the junta, the new Muggle government was tracking down communists and political opponents. But what they don’t tell you is that there was a special military division also dedicated to hunting down suspected wizards and witches. Right-wing governments _hate_ the idea of magic. I think it’s because their pea-brains can’t handle it. Religion makes them go mad. Anyway, so they fled to France in 1967, and Linardos became Linard.”

“So she wasn’t born Cassandra Linard, then.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, barrelling along. “Cassandra went to Beauxbatons with Leon and she got pregnant right with Daphne right after she graduated, before they were even engaged. There was a lot of speculation back in England that she had done it on purpose, entrapped him so he couldn’t leave her to marry one of the Rowle girls, as was expected. I wouldn’t be surprised, Cassandra’s the most manipulative person I know, and that’s coming from the daughter of Camelia Parkinson. She’s not very good at it, though, but that’s a different story.

“They moved back to Britain after Voldemort fell, when Daphne was just a few months old. Had Astoria two years later. When the second war started, Leon was ready to flee, again. He would have, if they had come for him. He got lucky. Corbin Yaxley was only ever fond of one person: his aunt. She begged him to help, and he convinced Voldemort Leon was on their side, but too unwell to fight.” Pansy scoffed. “Didn’t help Daphne or Astoria, though, did it? The man’s a coward, through and through. Couldn’t even find his own way out of the situation, had to rely on his dying mother’s last wishes and a psychopath’s good graces to save his arse. It’s pathetic.” She zoned out, then, lost in some world Hermione still wasn’t privy to.

“Pansy?”

She snapped back to the present. “Sorry. Right, so Leon’s awful but also as weak as them come. Cassandra is the power behind the family, which isn’t saying much. She’s incredibly conniving and has lofty goals for herself and the family, but she’s not very good at the execution. For example, getting pregnant with Daphne and thinking that’ll save her relationship and bring her British pureblood respect. She got Leon, sure, but most purebloods, particularly women who were in the running for marrying Leon, hate her. She’s pulled a lot of stunts over the years. Tried to get a marriage contract drawn up between Daphne and Draco when they were two years old. Lucius refused outright due to the questionable circumstances surrounding Daphne’s existence. Honestly, if Cassandra had tried for a contract between Astoria and Draco, he might have gone for it. Even my mother never tried that.” She took a large sip of wine.

“How do you know all of this?”

Pansy shrugged. “You try being Daphne’s best friend _and_ the daughter of the biggest gossip in Wizarding Britain. You pick up on things.”

They watched as Cassandra turned to introduce Narcissa Malfoy, offering her a smile as cloying as the one she had graced Hermione with minutes earlier.

“I’m going to tell you something, Granger, and I’m only saying it because you should know the whole picture if you’re going to be spending this much time with the Greengrasses. I wouldn’t tell anyone about this otherwise. And you can’t repeat it. Never. Understand?”

“Of course.”

“You know Daphne’s relationship with her parents is strained. The primary reason is her mother. Cassandra blames Daphne from the social alienation she’s always faced here. The rumours about the marriage, the glares from other purebloods, her exclusion from teas and lunches – she _hates_ Daphne because she associates all of it with her. It didn’t help that Daphne has always been her own person, always made her own decisions. Cassandra hated that. I really mean it, Granger. She genuinely _hates_ her own child. But Astoria – Astoria was different. She was Cassandra’s second chance, a shot at a child with no questions of legitimacy. She’s been showered with love and affection since the day she was born. Smothered with it, really. Cassandra wouldn’t let her out of her sight for the first five years of her life. The woman treats Astoria like a little mini-me doll to mould into the perfect pureblood woman, while Daphne’s constantly cast to the side, berated, hated. Daphne says Astoria doesn’t even realize it, the difference in the way they’re treated. Cassandra’s too careful. She doesn’t want Tori’s image of her to be spoiled. It’s the most horrifying family dynamic I’ve ever seen outside of Theo’s. It’s what Daph and Theo bonded over, at the beginning.”

“Wait,” Hermione interjected, information finally piecing together. “The paper last week. The stuff about the Golden Trio and all the stuff about the Greengrasses and the article about Daphne and Theo. Was that—”

“Cassandra? Yes. Well, most likely. But as I said, she’s terrible at it. She promoted the Greengrasses and manufactured some Golden Trio associations and tried to hurt Daphne and Theo, but she didn’t account for Skeeter’s hatred of the Malfoys and now the Greengrasses are directly linked with articles about Death Eaters. That, or she doesn’t want Astoria marrying a Death Eater since it’s no longer in favour,” Pansy snorted. “Either way, it was definitely her. No doubt in my mind.”

“Does Draco know?” Hermione asked.

“Of course he knows. And even if he didn’t, Narcissa would have figured it out and told him. He knows.”

Hermione frowned, watching as Theo and Daphne regaled the audience with tales of Draco and Astoria’s so-called fairytale romance.

The couple had yet to appear.

“And he—he’s still—”

Pansy’s expression softened. “Still marrying her.”

“Yes.” Hermione whispered.

“Yes. He’s still marrying her.”

Applause filled the room as Draco and Astoria ascended the stage, beaming like the happiest couple on earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: This story will no longer be updated on Sundays since my schedule has been super irregular lately with work :( I will definitely still be posting regularly, ideally once a week. I'll definitely post one chapter a week *on average*, which means I'll sometimes post multiple chapters a week and sometimes none. I'm so sorry! I know the irregular schedule isn't exactly ideal and I would change it if I could, but I would rather lower your expectations than consistently miss deadlines. As such, I hope you all subscribe so you get notifications when I do post! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing. I appreciate you all so much!

**Author's Note:**

> 2/8/21 UPDATE: Guys I'm FREAKING out!! The Engagement now has 50 public bookmarks and 125 kudos and over 3000 hits! I'm totally losing it thank you guys so much for the love <3


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